THE EX-BEAU MEETS THE FEATHER-MAKERS
———
"What! you are going so soon! I thought—I hoped——"
The two girls were already in the omnibus.

NOVELS
BY
P a u l d e K o c k
VOLUME II
MONSIEUR CHERAMI

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

[I, ] [II, ] [III, ] [IV, ] [V, ] [VI, ] [VII, ] [VIII, ] [IX, ] [X, ] [XI, ] [XII, ] [XIII, ] [XIV, ] [XV, ] [XVI, ] [XVII, ] [XVIII, ] [XIX, ] [XX, ] [XXI, ] [XXII, ] [XXIII, ] [XXIV, ] [XXV, ] [XXVI, ] [XXVII, ] [XXVIII, ] [XXIX, ] [XXX, ] [XXXI, ] [XXXII, ] [XXXIII, ] [XXXIV, ] [XXXV, ] [XXXVI, ] [XXXVII, ] [XXXVIII, ] [XXXIX, ] [XL, ] [XLI, ] [XLII, ] [XLIII, ] [XLIV, ] [XLV, ] [XLVI, ] [XLVII, ] [XLVIII, ] [XLIX, ] [L, ] [LI, ] [LII, ] [LIII, ] [LIV, ] [LV, ] [LVI, ] [LVII, ] [LVIII, ] [LIX, ] [LX, ] [LXI, ] [LXII, ] [LXIII ]

I
AN OMNIBUS OFFICE

The office in question stood near Porte Saint-Martin, at the corner of the Boulevard and Rue de Bondy, in the same building as the Deffieux restaurant, which was one of the most popular establishments in Paris in respect of wedding banquets; so that one who passed that way during the evening, and often after midnight, was likely to find the windows brilliantly lighted on the first or second floor, on the boulevard or on the square, and sometimes on both floors and on both sides; for it happened not infrequently that Deffieux entertained four or five wedding parties the same evening. That caused him no embarrassment, for he had room enough for all; indeed, I believe that, at a pinch, he would have set tables on the boulevard.

And there was dancing everywhere, on all sides: in this room, a fashionable ball; in that, a bourgeois affair; on the floor above, something not far removed from the plebeian; but it is likely that the latter was not the least enjoyable of the three, to those who took part in it; certainly, there was more noise made, at any rate.

What a home of pleasure! It seems to me that those who live in such places ought to be always in high spirits, and to have one leg in the air, ready to dance. That would be tiresome perhaps, but how can one avoid a longing to be merry when one has constantly before one's eyes a crowd of merry folk, dancing, eating, drinking, singing, making soft eyes at one another, or shaking hands with all the warmth of the most sincere regard! Man is so expansive toward the end of a hearty meal! At such a time, we all attract and love one another.

You will tell me, perhaps, that these sentiments rarely outlast the time necessary for digestion; that even those joyous wedding feasts, during which the newly married pair look at and speak to each other with such a world of love in their eyes and of tender meaning in their voices, do not even wait till the end of the year before they become transformed into gloomy and depressing pictures. There are many people who have gone so far as to say that there are only two pleasant days in married life: that on which the husband and wife come together, and that on which they part; just as there are but two to the traveller: the day of departure, and the day of return.

But people say so many things that are not true! I have known many travellers who have enjoyed travelling; they were never in a hurry to return to their firesides.

I love to believe that it is the same with husbands and wives, and that there are some who enjoy the married state and have no desire to quit it.

But what, in heaven's name, am I chattering about, when we ought already to have entered the omnibus office, whence public conveyances started for Belleville, La Villette, Saint-Sulpice, Grenelle, and a multitude of other places, each farther from Paris than the last?

One could also purchase at the office in question small bottles of essence, flasks of perfumed vinegar, blacking, and pomade. Commerce slides in everywhere! There is no harm in that. Commerce is the life of nations and of individuals. Everybody is engaged in commerce, even those who do not suspect it.

It was a beautiful day, in the middle of June, and a Saturday; three circumstances which could not fail to result in bringing a large crowd to the omnibus office, as well as to Deffieux's restaurant. That restaurant attracts me; I keep going back to it, in spite of myself. That is to say, that I go back to it, not in spite of myself, but with all my heart, for one is very comfortable there. Now, you know, or you do not know—but I should be very much surprised if you didn't,—I resume: you know that Saturday is the day on which more wedding feasts occur than on any other day in the week. Why? I fancy that I have already told you, somewhere or other; but, no matter! let us go on as if I had never told you. Saturday is the day before Sunday, and therein lies the whole secret; on Sunday, the government clerks do not go to their offices, and they are great fellows for marrying; on Sunday, the mechanics do not work, and the mechanic, too, is very fond of taking unto himself a housekeeper; lastly, Sunday is the day of rest, and people say that on the day after one's wedding one needs to rest.—Why so? Go to! do not ask me such questions! This much is certain—that the night between Saturday and Sunday is one of the finest nights in the week, even when there is no moon.

But, sapristi! here I am still at the restaurant!—You will end by thinking that I am much addicted to such places. Well, frankly, you are not mistaken. I frequent them not a little. I often hear people say: "Don't talk to me of restaurant cooking; it's execrable!"—And those people think that nothing is good but beef stew, a leg of mutton, and roast beef. True classics those, in the matter of dishes. O Robert! O Brillat-Savarin! O Berchoux! Not for such as these did ye write and compound such delicious things! But be comforted, ye men of refined taste to whom we owe so much! there are still palates which relish your merit, which appreciate your skill, and which do not make faces at your succulent conceptions.

Again, Saturday, in summer, is the day which many people select for a trip to the country, to remain until Monday. On the day of which we write, therefore, the omnibuses were largely patronized; for everyone was in a great hurry to get to some railroad station, or to the point where they could take stages for some more or less distant destination.

So that there was a great crowd at the office by Porte Saint-Martin, and the clerk whose duty it was to distribute tickets did not know which way to turn; he had to be constantly on the alert, in order to avoid mistakes, especially as the travellers did not always confine themselves to asking for an exchange check or a number, but added irrelevant reflections, questions, and, in many cases, complaints.

"An exchange check for La Villette."

"Here you are, monsieur."

"When do we start?"

"When the 'bus comes, monsieur."

"Will it be long before it comes?"

"I don't think so, monsieur."

"A ticket for Belleville, please."

"Here it is, madame."

"Ah! mon Dieu! number seventy-five! Are there seventy-four ahead of me?"

"No, madame; we begin at fifty."

"Then there are twenty-five ahead of me?"

"Some of them haven't waited; they won't answer the call, and that puts the others ahead."

"A check for Saint-Sulpice."

"Here you are."

"Where's the 'bus?"

"It will come along."

"Oh! I've got to wait; that isn't very pleasant."

"Dame! monsieur, we can't have 'buses ready to start every minute."

"Why not? It would be much pleasanter for the passengers; but nothing is ever done to please the passengers; I must complain to the management."

"Complain, if you choose, monsieur; that's none of our business."

"Why, yes, it is your business, too; it ought to be your business, as you're the one we deal with. What sort of a way is that to answer? Is that the way you treat passengers here? It seems to me that you ought to show more respect."

The man who is going to La Villette approaches the clerk once more.

"Tell me, have I got time to go to the pastry-cook's to buy a cake?"

"Why, monsieur, no one interferes with your going.—Here's the Grenelle 'bus—passengers for Grenelle—take your places!"

"I ask you if I have got time to go to get a cake before my 'bus comes?"

"Place des Victoires! All aboard for Place des Victoires!"

"Tell me about getting my cake!"

"Yes, monsieur; yes, yes, go to the pastry-cook's!"

And the clerk turns to his comrade, muttering:

"What a nuisance the fellow is with his cake!—Where should we be if everybody asked questions like that?"

A woman, of forty years or thereabout, who could not easily have found a compartment large enough to hold her, entered the office, leading two small boys, one of eight and one of four years, who were dressed like the little trained dogs that do tricks on the boulevards, and whose noses had evidently been overlooked because of their hurried departure from home.

A servant, laden with an enormous basket, from which protruded divers fishes' tails and bunches of leeks, and with an insecurely tied pasteboard box, bulging as to the sides and split in several places, sulkily followed her mistress, hitting everybody with her basket and box, without a word of apology, but apparently rather inclined to make wry faces at her victims.

"I want two seats for Romainville, monsieur—for me and my maid; my boys don't pay, because we hold them in our laps."

"Madame, this boy is certainly more than five; he must pay."

"But, monsieur, I tell you, I hold him in my lap; so we only fill one seat."

"That must annoy your neighbors."

"I don't suppose people ride in omnibuses to be comfortable!—Aristoloche, where are you going? Stay with your nurse, sir! Adelaide, do look out for the child; you know how fretful he is!"

Mademoiselle Adelaide, who looked more like a cook than a lady's maid, had gone with her packages and planted herself on a bench, between an old gentleman and an old woman, causing them to jump into the air as if they were elastic. The shock was so violent that the old woman shrieked, thinking that she had been electrified. The man, irritated beyond words by the manner in which the servant had plumped down beside him, and perceiving that the fishes' tails which protruded from her basket were caressing the sleeves of his coat, pushed the basket away with his elbow, exclaiming:

"What sort of way is that to sit down, throwing yourself onto people? Pay attention to what you are doing, mademoiselle, and be good enough to move your basket; I have no desire to have your fish rub against my sleeves and make them smell like poison."

"What! what do you say? What's the matter with the old fellow?"

"I tell you to move your basket; I don't want it under my nose."

"Where do you want me to put my basket, eh? On the floor perhaps, so that someone can steal it! Oh, yes! we should have a nice time in the country, where there's never anything to eat. What harm does the basket do you?"

"It smells like the devil!"

"Nonsense, it's yourself!"

"I pity the passengers in the 'bus with you; they'll have a fine time!"

"Shut up, you old cucumber! you'd like to be as fresh as my fish!"

The epithet old cucumber touched the old man to the quick; he got up and walked away, muttering:

"If you weren't a woman, I'd stuff your words down your throat!"

"Oh, indeed! you'd have plenty to do then, for I feel like saying a good deal more to you."

"But, Adelaide, I beg you, look out for Aristoloche; he's going out of the office."

"Well, I can't help it, madame; I can't attend to everything; I have quite enough to do with your box and your basket—and with talking back to this veteran."

"Veteran! I believe that you had the face to call me veteran!"

"La Villette—all aboard!—Monsieur, you're for La Villette; hurry up!"

These words were addressed to the old man who was disputing with Adelaide, and who, as he left, bestowed a crushing glance on the servant, who laughed in his face and administered a cuff to young Aristoloche, the child of four, who, despite his mamma's orders, persisted in trying to leave the office.

II
A BLONDE AND A BRUNETTE

"Well, monsieur," said the corpulent dame, pulling over her eldest son's eyes a small gray felt hat, with a Henri IV crown, and surrounded on all sides by feathers which drooped like palm-leaves; "we can get tickets for Romainville, I hope?"

"We don't sell tickets for Romainville, madame, but for Belleville; there you'll find the Romainville stage."

"Oh! you don't sell tickets for Romainville here; that's very unpleasant. Shall we have to pay again when we change?"

"Yes, madame; but if you take checks, it will be only four sous twenty centimes."

"For each?"

"To be sure."

"That's very dear. Narcisse, do pull your hat down, or you'll lose it; you know it fell off just now on the boulevard, and somebody almost stepped on it; your fine Henri IV hat is very pretty, you know."

"I hate it; the feathers make me squint."

"Hold your tongue, bad boy; your aunt bought that hat for you; you won't get another for two years!"

"Take off the feathers, then!"

"Hush! you don't deserve to be so fine!"

"Fine! oh, yes! all the boys make fun of me and say I look like a chienlit."[A]

"They're little villains! They say that from envy, for they'd like right well to have a hat like yours.—Say, monsieur, can you promise me a seat in the other 'bus?"

"Oh! I can't promise you; but if there's no room in that, there's sure to be in the next one."

"Do they start often?"

"Every twenty minutes."

"Wait twenty minutes! why, that's horrible! Oh! how sorry I am I promised my aunt to dine with her to-day!"

"Especially," muttered the servant, "as we have to carry our own dinner when we dine with her.—A pretty kind of invitation! She don't ruin herself giving dinner parties!"

"Here, give me two tickets for Belleville."

"Here they are, madame."

"Come here, Aristoloche; come here this minute! Oh! how these children do torment me! They're like little snakes!"

"All aboard for Belleville!"

"Belleville, why that's ours! Take Aristoloche's hand, Adelaide."

"That's very convenient, when I have a basket and a box already!"

But before the stout woman, with her servant and the two children, had left the office, the Belleville omnibus had started off; there was but one vacant seat, and twenty people were waiting for it. You should have seen the disappointment depicted on all those faces then. Several persons, tired of waiting, decided to walk. Others remained in the square; but the majority returned to the office, where all the benches were already filled. These public carriages are surely an excellent invention; but let us admit that they are not equal to the most modest of char-à-bancs, which is entirely at your service, even when you only hire it.

Finding no place to sit inside the office, the dame with the little boys seated herself and them on a bench outside. As for the servant, she succeeded in finding room inside; the fish in her basket was of much assistance to her in inducing others to make room; there was a general rush to get as far away from her as possible.

The party with the cake returned, and ran up to the clerk.

"Well! isn't it about time for us to start?"

"Where are you going, monsieur?"

"You know perfectly well—to La Villette."

"The 'bus started three minutes ago."

"What! it didn't wait for me! I asked you if I had time to go to buy a cake, and you said yes. You ought to have said no, if I hadn't."

"You shouldn't have been so long about it, monsieur."

"I thought there was a pastry-cook on Carré Saint-Martin, but I couldn't find anything but pork-shops."

"You can take the next 'bus."

"How soon does it start?"

"In seven minutes."

"Then I've got time to go to drink a glass of beer to wash down my cake. Cafés aren't like pastry-cooks—you can find them anywhere."

"Be careful, monsieur; seven minutes at the outside."

"You can keep it waiting a minute if I'm not here."

"They never wait, monsieur."

Two rather attractive young women entered the office; they were modestly dressed, and their hats were so small, and set so far back on their heads, that they looked to be nothing more than caps. Their general appearance was that of grisettes. Some writers who study present-day manners in their studies, or at table in a café, claim that there are no grisettes now; but I assure you that that is not true; if you do not find any, it is because you have not made a thorough search. There will always be grisettes in Paris, where the more or less flighty young work-girl of the Latin quarter does not pass at one bound from her modest chamber to the boudoir of a kept mistress.

One of the young women who entered the omnibus office was a brunette, with a retroussé nose, defiant eye, smiling mouth, teeth a little too far apart—but that is better than having false teeth; the other was a blonde, one of those blondes who have received a light touch of fire; but that color never yet prevented a woman from being pretty. If you doubt what I say, go to England or Scotland; auburn-haired women are in the majority there, and, as a general rule, they are very fascinating. The blonde grisette was pretty; but she had a sort of stupid expression which might at first sight pass for modesty; but on talking with her, you soon discovered that it was really stupidity; therein she formed a striking contrast to her companion, who had a bright, wide-awake manner.

"Monsieur," said the brunette, addressing the clerk, "have you any seats for Belleville?"

"You must take your turn, mademoiselle."

"But will our turn be long in coming?"

"Not very; a good many people have gone."

In truth, the odor exhaled by the whiting stuffed into Mademoiselle Adelaide's basket, and the fear of having to travel with her, had led many persons to start for their destinations on foot.

"Here, mesdemoiselles, take these two tickets; your turn will come."

"Say, Laurette, suppose we walk?" said the pretty blonde.

"Thanks, and tire ourselves out, and arrive all drenched—what fun! For my part, I don't like to sweat; it uncurls my hair. Mon Dieu! what a crowd! It's all the rage now; no one is willing to go on foot, and there aren't enough 'buses."

"Belleville! Faubourg du Temple!"

"Ah! here it is! here it is!"

Further evolutions performed by the stout woman, the two boys, and the servant, but with no greater success; there were four vacant seats, but there were other numbers before theirs. The two girls also came forward.

"There's no more room, except on top," said the conductor.

"All right! we don't care; we'll go on top."

"Pardon! ladies are not allowed there."—And the conductor added, with a wink: "It isn't my fault, you know; nothing would suit me better."

"I believe you," said a man in a blouse; "if women were allowed to climb up there, there's lots of men who would pay to be conductors."

"Why do they say that?" the blonde asked her companion; "what good would it do the conductors to have women ride in the three-sou seats?"

"Oh! what a fool you are, Lucie! What! don't you understand?"

"Why, no."

"Oh! you make me weary."

"Never mind; tell me why?"

"My dear girl, it's a matter of the point of view; that's all."

III
THE YOUNG MAN FROM PLACE CADET

An awkward, loutish youth entered the office.

"Place Cadet, monsieur?"

"This isn't the office; it's out on the boulevard, at the left, just at the corner."

"Exceedingly obliged; will there be a seat?"

"How do you expect us to know, when this isn't the office?"

"Oh! of course; and that is where I must go for a number? Suppose you give me one, wouldn't that amount to the same thing?"

"Why, no, monsieur; the 'bus doesn't stop here."

"The 'bus is what I want to go on."

"You can go on it or under it; it's none of our affair."

"Do you mean that one can ride underneath?"

The clerk concluded to turn his back on the stupid idiot who asked such questions. Mademoiselle Laurette, having overheard the dialogue, burst out laughing, as she said:

"I'd have sent that fellow to the deuce in short measure. What a booby! You must need a good stock of patience to answer all those questions!"

"Ah! mademoiselle, if you were employed in an omnibus office, you'd hear many things like that!"

"Really! do you mean to say that there are others like him in Paris?"

"There are everywhere, mademoiselle."

Meanwhile, the individual who wished to go to Place Cadet had left the office; then he halted on the square, looking about him with a confused air. He spied the stout woman sitting on a bench, between Messieurs Narcisse and Aristoloche, one of whom was trying all the time to push away the feathers that adorned the front of his hat, while the other confined his energies to persistently stuffing one of his fingers into his nose. Our friend went up to the dame and said, touching his hat:

"A ticket for Place Cadet, madame, if you please."

"Do you take me for an omnibus clerk, monsieur?" replied the dame, sourly; "can't you go to the office?"

"Pardon me, madame; I just went there, and they told me to apply on the left, in a corner."

"Well, monsieur, am I a corner, I should like to know?"

"Dame! I don't know; they told me to go to the left; I don't see the office; I don't see the 'bus."

And the youth returned to the office he had just left, crying:

"Where is that place where you get tickets for Place Cadet? I can't find it; can't you come and show me the way?"

"Well, this caps the climax! If we had to act as guides for everybody who goes astray, then there would have to be a corps of messengers attached to the office.—Over yonder, I told you, monsieur; on the other side of Boulevard Saint-Denis."

"What! have I got to go all the way to Saint-Denis to get to Place Cadet?"

"La Villette! all aboard for La Villette!"

All those who were bound for that destination hurried from the office, and in the confusion jostled the youth who wished to go to Place Cadet, and who persisted in remaining in the office where he had no business, looking at everybody as if he were disposed to weep.

"Why do you stay here, monsieur," inquired Mademoiselle Laurette, "when they told you to go to the office on Boulevard Saint-Denis?"

"I don't know Boulevard Saint-Denis, mademoiselle; and I am afraid of losing my way."

"The trouble is that you ought not to have been let go out alone; some parents are very imprudent! I'll tell you what you ought to do: go to one of the messengers over by Porte Saint-Martin; take his arm and give him ten sous, and he'll take you to Place Cadet; he'll carry you even, if you're tired."

"Ten sous! oh! that's too much. You're not going to Place Cadet, are you, mademoiselle?"

"Oh! no, monsieur; we're going to the country."

"Ah! do the omnibuses take people to the country too?"

"They take you everywhere, monsieur."

"Really! I have such a longing to see the sea; do the omnibuses give transfer checks for the seashore?"

"You have only to ask, and you'll find out."

The tall clown was on the point of returning to the clerks, but he was pushed aside by the man who had gone to get a glass of beer, and who returned to the office with a joyous air, saying:

"Ah! this time I think I haven't been long; is my La Villette 'bus coming?"

"La Villette!—it's just started, monsieur."

"Oh! that is too much. Why couldn't you make it wait?"

"They never wait, monsieur."

"When will there be another one now?"

"In about ten minutes."

"Oh! then I have time enough to get a cup of coffee—and a glass of liqueur to wash down the beer."

With that, he returned to the café, followed by the tall youth, who shouted to him from afar:

"Monsieur, a ticket for Place Cadet?"

IV
ONLOOKERS AND LOITERERS

A line of carriages, with white-gloved coachmen, semi-bourgeois equipages, had halted on the square in front of the restaurant; still another wedding party intending to banquet at Deffieux's.

A number of people had gathered in front of the door, to watch the bridal couple enter. Inquisitive folk abound in Paris; perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they abound everywhere. Why this general desire to see a bride, when she has not as yet performed all the duties which that title devolves upon her? Is it simply to see whether she is pretty, and to read upon her features whether or not she is looking forward joyfully to becoming a wife? This is a simple question that we ask, but we will not undertake to answer it.

Among the persons who had halted there, some in passing, others coming from the omnibus office, others on the way there, was a tall man, in the neighborhood of forty-five years, standing very straight, even bending back a little from the hips, with head erect, nose in air, and his hat on one side, in true roistering style.

This person, whose chestnut hair was beginning to be sprinkled with gray, had very irregular features. His eyes were small and deep-set, of a pale green shade, but full of fire and animation. His nose was crooked, slightly turned up, and might almost have been called flat. His mouth was large, but his teeth were fine, and not one was missing; so that his smile was not unattractive, especially as he was not over lavish of it. His chin retreated slightly, his cheek-bones, as a contrast, were exceedingly prominent; his complexion was high-colored and blotched, although he was thin both in body and face. With this unpromising exterior, my gentleman seemed none the less to consider himself an Apollo. He wore bushy mutton-chop whiskers, which almost met in the middle of his chin, leaving between them only a very narrow space, cleanly shaven, which he often caressed with affection, and which he called his dimple. His manners denoted no less self-assurance than familiarity with the world; and they would even have borne some traces of refinement, had he not adopted a sort of mincing gait not unlike that of a drum-major; but, instead of a great baton, this gentleman had a slender switch, curved at the top, which seemed to have been painted and gilded long before, but had lost a large part of its decoration. It was a very pliable switch, with which he constantly tapped his trousers-legs.

His costume did not indicate the dandy, although its wearer affected the manners of one. His linen trousers, of a very large check, seemed to have been cut from the skirt of some concierge. His waistcoat was also of a check pattern, but its colors did not harmonize at all with those of the trousers; nothing was wanting except the plaid to give him altogether the aspect of a Scotch Highlander; but, instead of the plaid, he wore a nut-brown frock-coat, with ample skirts, which he often left unbuttoned the better to display his slender figure, and in which he sometimes encased himself hermetically, as if it were a cloak. It is needless to say that this costume was entirely lacking in freshness.

This personage, who had a habit of speaking always in a very loud tone, so that everybody could hear what he said and presumably be struck with admiration by his wit,—a method of attracting attention which enables you to divine instantly the sort of man with whom you have to do—this personage pushed and jostled some of the loiterers, exclaiming:

"What's all this? what's all this? a wedding party, eh? Mon Dieu! is a wedding party such a very strange thing that everybody must stop and push and crowd, to see the couple? Triple idiots of Parisians! On my word, one would think they had never seen such a thing before!"

"What's that! what makes you push me so hard to get my place, if there's nothing to look at?" said a youngster in a blouse, whom the other had pushed away with some violence.

"Who is it that presumes to speak to me? God forgive me! I believe that this little turnspit dares to complain! Look out that I don't teach you whom you are talking to!"

"In the first place, I ain't a turnspit; do you hear, you long flag-pole?"

That epithet caused the gentleman in the Scotch nether garments to quiver with rage; he threw himself back and raised his cane, and, in the course of that evolution, trod on the feet of an old woman who stood behind him leading a small dog, which was doing its best to avoid being present at the arrival of the wedding party.

"Ah! monsieur, take care, for heaven's sake! you're treading on me. A little more, and you'd have crushed Abdallah!"

"Very sorry, madame; but I have no eyes in my back. Ah! the rascal who had the effrontery to reply to me has fled. I will not chase him, because he's only a child; if he had been a man, he'd have felt my switch on his shoulders before this."

"Monsieur, do take care; Abdallah is under your feet!"

"What's that! what, in God's name, is this Abdallah of yours, madame?"

"My dear little King Charles.—Come here, come, you runaway!"

"That beast a King Charles? He's a very ugly water-spaniel, and I wouldn't give two sous for him. How stupid some people are with their dogs! Ah! there's the bride, no doubt.—Peste! how lightly we jump down! Very good! I have my cue. She'll wear the breeches; I can see that at a glance."

A young woman, in the traditional bridal costume, had, in fact, alighted from one of the carriages; she did not wait for the arm which a stout, chubby-faced papa, already perspiring profusely, who, however, was not one of the groomsmen, was preparing to offer her.

The bride was apparently about twenty years of age; she was short and plump, with light hair, a white skin, and a rosy complexion; she was not a beauty, but her face was piquant and attractive, with a pleasant smile of the sort that almost always denotes a quick wit; but smiles do not invariably fulfil their promises.

The stout papa, who had come forward too late to assist the bride to alight from her carriage, was also too late for another lady who followed her; and he missed a third likewise, because he was very busily occupied in wiping the perspiration from his brow.

The gentleman with the check trousers, having turned his eyes upon the stout man, rushed toward the carriage, exclaiming:

"Pardieu! I am not mistaken, it's my good Blanquette! Dear Monsieur Blanquette! Holà, there! I say, Père Blanquette! Holà! is it possible that you don't know your friends? Just turn your eyes this way!"

The stout papa, being thus noisily addressed, ceased to wipe his brow, and, looking in the direction of the crowd, speedily distinguished the person who had hailed him. Thereupon his face assumed an expression which denoted annoyance rather than pleasure, and he answered his interlocutor's greetings with cold and constrained courtesy.

"Oh! good-day, Monsieur Cherami—glad to see you."

"So you're of the wedding party, Papa Blanquette?—All in full dress, eh? You were in the same carriage with the bride."

"Well, it would be a strange thing if I wasn't of the party, when it's my nephew who's being married!"

"Your nephew? Oho! then I understand; I have my cue. What! that dear little Adolphe—who never wanted to do anything—who didn't take to anything, as I remember."

"But he has taken to marriage very readily.—Besides, Adolphe is a big fellow now."

"What! it is your nephew whose wedding you are celebrating, and I did not know it? Such an old friend as I am, too—for you know, Papa Blanquette, how devoted I am to you! You have seen me in an emergency; and you let me know nothing about it, and I am not invited to the wedding! Do you know, Monsieur Blanquette, that I might justly be offended by such actions, if I were sensitive? But I am not—I leave that foible to idiots."

For some moments, the stout man had been listening with but one ear to the individual whose name we now know. The bridegroom's uncle was watching the carriages, and, another one having taken the place of that from which the bride had alighted, he was determined not to be behindhand again in offering his hand to the ladies; so he hurried to the door, leaving Monsieur Cherami still talking, and confined himself to an inclination of the head as he muttered:

"Excuse me, monsieur; but I have no time; there are some ladies whom I must assist—I cannot talk any longer."

Monsieur Cherami compressed his lips, frowned, and shrugged his shoulders, saying:

"Ah! this is your way of being polite, is it, you old numskull! He puts on airs because he's made a little money in Elbeuf broadcloth; as if that were such a wonderful thing! And to think that I have sent him more than fifty customers,—my tailor, among others!—and he acts as if he hardly knew me! All because he has money! a lot of merit in that! for who hasn't money now? It has become so common that persons of distinction don't want it."

"In that case, I fancy that tall, lanky fellow must be very distinguished!" whispered Mademoiselle Laurette to her friend; for the two girls had left the omnibus office to see the wedding party, and they were near enough to Monsieur Cherami to hear what he said. That was an easy matter, by the way, even at a distance, for our friend talked as Mangin does when he is describing his drawings in public.

Meanwhile, the four wedding carriages had discharged their freights, who had entered the restaurant; then the carriages drove away, and the bystanders dispersed, except those who had business at the omnibus office.

V
THE CAPUCINE FAMILY

Monsieur Cherami remained on the square, staring at the porte cochère of the restaurant, and tapping his legs with his switch, with a nervous, jerky movement; he seemed undecided as to the course he had better pursue, and muttered, quite loud enough, however, to be overheard:

"I don't know what restrains me; I am tempted to join that wedding party; I have a perfect right to force myself on that crowd. If I were dressed, I'd do it. On my word of honor, I'd do it! not that I care so much for the banquet; I know what a feast is; I've had a hand in a few of them in my time, God knows! and some that this one can't hold a candle to. Sapristi! what is this that I feel against my legs?"

"Don't move, monsieur, I beg you! Abdallah's string has got tangled round your legs; I'll untwist it."

"Corbleu! madame, that's a most insufferable dog of yours! When you're leading a dog, you shouldn't give him so much string."

The old woman, having succeeded in disentangling her spaniel from our friend's legs, concluded to take Abdallah in her arms, then went away, glaring fiercely at all those in her neighborhood.

But Monsieur Cherami, being rid of the dog, turned about and spied the stout woman and the two small boys, who were still awaiting an opportunity to go to Belleville. Thereupon he exclaimed anew, saluting profusely, and shouting so loud that he attracted the attention of everybody within hearing:

"God bless me! do I see Madame Capucine? What a fortunate meeting! I didn't expect such good fortune. What! you have been here all the time, madame, and I did not see you!"

"Yes, Monsieur Cherami; here I am, and here I've been a long, long time, alas! I'm getting pretty impatient, I tell you; think of having to wait an hour for seats in an omnibus!"

"Don't speak of it; it's intolerable! That's the reason I always walk, myself; I can't make up my mind to wait. Ah! there are the two dear boys, Narcisse and Aristoloche; they improve every day—they'll be superb men—they're the living portraits of their mother!"

A smile, to which she strove to give an expression of modesty, played about Madame Capucine's lips, as she replied affectedly:

"Oh! there's a look of the father, too!"

"Do you think so? No, I can't see it; Capucine isn't a handsome man; an insignificant face; while his wife—— Ah! the rascal showed taste in his choice, on my word! But I don't understand how you ever made up your mind to marry him; if I were a woman, I'd never have done it; it's Venus and Vulcan over again."

"Oh! you always exaggerate, Monsieur Cherami; to hear you talk, one would think my husband was hunchbacked."

"If he isn't, he ought to have been."

"What! what do you mean by that?"

"Sh! I know what I mean. Ah! if Capucine wasn't a friend of mine!"

"Adelaide! Adelaide! I think that's a green 'bus coming; come here, quick!"

The servant left the office, with her basket. Monsieur Cherami greeted her with an affable bow, which she barely acknowledged, muttering:

"Bah! there goes the rest of our money! I wonder if that man's coming to dine with us? If he is, there'll never be enough to eat."

"Are you going into the country, Madame Capucine?"

"Yes, monsieur; we're going to Romainville."

"Have you bought a summer house, a villa, in that neighborhood?"

"No, monsieur; my Aunt Duponceau has a little place there, and we're going to pass Sunday with her."

"You begin the day before, I see."

"She made me promise to come Saturday with the children. Capucine will join us to-morrow."

"Ah! he isn't with you?"

"It wasn't possible; we can't all leave at once, on account of the business; it's stretching a point for me to go away with my servant."

"But you have your clerk?"

"Monsieur Ballot? Oh! yes, he's still with us; we're very lucky to have him—a very intelligent fellow, and full of ideas."

Monsieur Cherami smiled maliciously, as he replied:

"Yes, yes, I saw at once that he attended to your business very well. I'm sure that you'll push that young man ahead."

"Oh! he'll push himself all right. He's coming to Romainville to-morrow with my husband."

"The party'll be complete, then; but, meanwhile, you are without an escort to give you his arm, to look out for you."

"There is no danger on this little trip."

"A lovely woman is always in danger. All the men are tempted to carry her off. They don't always yield to the temptation, but they feel it, I promise you. Pardieu! I have my cue—a charming plan suggests itself to my mind: suppose I go with you to Romainville? Your Aunt Duponceau won't be sorry to see me, I'm sure. Indeed, I believe she urged me one day to go to see her in the country—yes, she certainly did. What do you think of that plan, lovely creature?"

Madame Capucine, having carefully scrutinized her friend's costume, seemed not at all anxious to take with her to the country a cavalier whose attire would not do her honor; and so, instead of answering his question, she observed:

"By the way, Monsieur Cherami, my husband told me, if I should happen to meet you, to remind you of that little bill—you know, eh? It's for some flannel vests, and it's been running a long while. You promised to pay it; I believe it's about a hundred and thirty francs."

Monsieur Cherami made a wry face, and struck his hat with his hand, muttering:

"Oh! madame, I know very well that I owe you a small account, a trifle, a mere nothing; but I have had much more important matters than that to think about."

"It's been running at least three years."

"What if it were twenty years! it's a trifle, none the less."

"Madame, madame! they're calling our numbers; there are some seats."

"Ah! mon Dieu! I must go. Come, Aristoloche; come, I say. Bonjour! Monsieur Cherami; think of us when you have time. Mon Dieu! I don't say it to hurry you, you know. Here I am, conductor."

Madame Capucine and her boys ran after the servant, and soon all four were in the omnibus.

"There are two more seats, mesdemoiselles," said the clerk to the two grisettes, who also had numbers for Belleville; but Mademoiselle Laurette shook her head.

"Thanks," she replied; "we'll give up our chance; we'll wait for the next; I don't travel with fish. In a boat, it's all right; but in a carriage it scents you up too much."

As for Monsieur Cherami, he had hardly responded to Madame Capucine's farewell; he looked after her with a disdainful air, saying:

"What a beast that haberdasher is! to talk to me about the balance of an account, in the street, in broad daylight, when I am kind enough to pay her compliments and to call her two little brats pretty! Go and sell your cotton nightcaps, you Hottentot Venus! for that woman strikes me as a caricature of Venus. Fine stuff her flannel vests are made of; I've only worn them three years, and they're torn already! I see plainly enough why you don't care to have me go to Aunt Duponceau's—that might interfere with your little tête-à-têtes with your clerk Ballot. Oh! poor Capucine! when I told that huge woman that her husband ought to be hunchbacked, she knew what I meant. However, I'd be glad to know where I shall dine to-day; indeed, to express my meaning more frankly, for I can afford to be frank with myself, I would like to know if I shall dine at all to-day."

VI
MONSIEUR CHERAMI

It is a very sad thing to have reached the point where one wonders whether one will have any dinner. And yet there are every day in Paris people who find themselves in that predicament; but it is comforting to know that such people generally end by dining; some very meagrely, to be sure, others moderately well, and others very well indeed and as if they were still prosperous. Those who succeed in dining well generally accomplish that end by some stratagem, by some new exertion of the imagination, which, however, must well-nigh have exhausted its ingenuity. What seems to me most surprising is that they dine gayly, with an excellent appetite, and with no concern for the morrow. One becomes accustomed to everything, they say; if that is philosophy, I do not envy the philosophers.

Especially when one has fallen into adversity by his own fault, his misconduct, his dissipated life, it would seem that adversity must be most painful, most bitter, most difficult to endure, and that shame must be his constant companion.

Those who are really victims of the injustice of fate, or of the stupidity of their contemporaries, can, at all events, hold their heads erect and refrain from blushing because of their poverty. Such were Homer, who was not appreciated during his life; Plautus, who was reduced to the necessity of turning a potter's wheel; Xylander, who sold his work on Dion Cassius to obtain a crust of bread; Lelio Girardi, author of a curious history of the Greek and Latin poets, who was reduced to a similar extremity; Usserius, too, a learned chronologist; Cornelius Agrippa, who wrote on the vanity of learning, and the excellent qualities of womankind; and the illustrious Miguel Cervantes, to whom we owe the admirable romance of Don Quixote.

We may add to this list Paul Borghese, who died of hunger; Tasso, who lived a whole week on a crown, which someone loaned him: true, he ceased to be poor, but only on the eve of his death; Aldus Manutius, who was so poor that he became bankrupt simply by borrowing money enough to ship his library from Venice to Rome, whither he had been summoned; Cardinal Bentivoglio, to whom we owe the history of the civil wars of Flanders: he did not leave enough to pay for his burial; Baudoin, translator of almost all the Latin authors; Vauglas, the grammarian; Du Ryer, author of tragedies, and translator of the Koran; all these lived in indigence. But we will pause here; examples are not lacking, but they would carry us too far; and then, they are not cheerful, and are out of our usual line; it was Monsieur Cherami's plight which induced us to cite so many. Let us now return to that gentleman.

Monsieur Cherami, whom we have seen so poorly dressed, and uncertain as to whether he will have any dinner, had once occupied a brilliant position, and had been noted for his dress, his bearing, and his gallant adventures. His father, who had been an eminent figure in the magistracy during the Consulate, had no other child. Arthur (such was Monsieur Cherami's baptismal name) had been petted, fondled, worshipped, spoiled, and his parents had proposed to make a great man of him. Poor parents! who believe that they can make their son an eminent personage, just as they would make him a tailor or a bootmaker. Arthur did become great, but in stature only. They sent him to school and gave him an excellent education; young Cherami learned readily enough; he was intelligent and quick-witted; he became especially strong in such elegant accomplishments as fencing, riding, and gymnastics; but he had the greatest aversion for serious work of every sort, and when his parents asked him: "Do you want to be a lawyer, a doctor, a man of letters, a broker, or a general?" Arthur replied: "I prefer to walk on the boulevards and smoke big eight-sou cigars."

This reply, which left nothing to be desired in the way of frankness, indicated a most generous inclination to consume the fortune which his parents had so laboriously amassed in business, and which, in fact, they left to their beloved son without undue delay. At the age of twenty-two, Arthur, who had as yet done nothing else than promenade and smoke, found himself an orphan and possessed of thirty-five thousand francs a year.

Thereupon, he abandoned himself to his taste for pleasure, augmented by a very keen penchant for the fair sex; and the fair sex is never ungrateful to a rich and open-handed man. Arthur was not handsome: his crooked nose, his small eyes, and his pointed chin, did not tend to make him a very attractive youth; however, the women told him again and again that he was charming, adorable, irresistible, and he believed it. We are so ready to believe anything that flatters our self-esteem! And yet, Arthur was no fool; indeed, he had his share of wit; but he was totally lacking in common sense, and without common sense, wit, as a general rule, serves no other purpose than to make one do foolish things. La Rochefoucauld makes this reflection with respect to women; for my part, I consider it perfectly applicable to both sexes.

At thirty years, Beau Cherami had spent, consumed, swallowed, his entire inheritance. But he had been noted for his costumes, his horses, his conquests, his love affairs. Eight years to run through a fortune worth thirty-five thousand francs a year—that is not such a very rapid pace; we often see young men who use up three times as much in much less time; to be sure, young Arthur did not gamble on the Bourse.

Being obliged then to sell his furniture, horses, and silverware, Cherami lived some time longer on the product of the sale; but his friends already began to find him less clever and amiable, and the women no longer called him their handsome Arthur. That was because he could no longer make them beautiful presents; and instead of loaning money to his friends and paying their shares of the expense of an orgy, he asked them to pay for him, and often applied to them for loans.

At thirty-five, Arthur was what these good friends of his called utterly dégommé: in other words, ruined. After he had lived for some time on credit, his tailor, his shirtmaker, his bootmaker, refused to trust him any more; whereupon he was obliged to wear garments that were worn and faded, and eventually threadbare; hats that had turned from black to rusty; worn boots that were rarely polished. When Cherami, in this garb, said to one of his former acquaintances: "I have left my purse at home; lend me twenty francs, will you?" the acquaintance would make a wry face and loan him five francs instead of twenty, and sometimes nothing at all; for a man in a threadbare coat does not inspire confidence. We loan money to the rich, because we think that they will return it.

After some time, Beau Arthur found that this last source of income was exhausted. He had said so often to his quondam friends: "I have forgotten my purse," or: "I have just discovered that there's a hole in my pocket," that they fled as soon as they saw him; many of them even ceased to return his bow, and pretended not to know him. Misfortune is the reef on which friendship is wrecked.

However, Cherami still possessed a remnant of his handsome fortune; a very small remnant, but enough to keep him from starving; and chance had decreed that the ci-devant beau could not dispose of it, otherwise he would not have failed to make away with it like the rest.

VII
THE COAL DEALER

The father of our spendthrift had, shortly before his death, obliged one of his employés by loaning him eleven thousand francs to start in the coal business. And the creditor, knowing his debtor's probity, had made the loan subject to no other condition than this: "You will pay my son the interest on this sum at five per cent. That makes five hundred and fifty francs a year that you will have to pay him so long as it doesn't inconvenience you; and, in any event, not more than ten years. After that time, your debt will be paid. But it must be understood that I forbid you ever to repay the principal."

These conditions were witnessed by no written contract; the merchant had declined to take his debtor's note. But the latter had faithfully carried out his former employer's intentions. Every three months, he brought Arthur one hundred and thirty-seven francs fifty centimes, the stipulated interest of the money he had received. In his prosperous days, when he still had an income of thirty-five thousand francs, young Arthur had often said to Bernardin—that was the coal dealer's name:

"What the devil do you expect me to do with your hundred and thirty-seven francs, Bernardin? As if I cared for such a trifle! Go and have a good fish dinner at La Râpée—with some pretty wench. That will be much better. I consider that you've paid up."

But the coal dealer, an upright, economical man, scrupulously exact in all his dealings, always contented himself with replying:

"I owe you this money, monsieur; it's the interest on what your late father was kind enough to give me. I say give, because my late excellent master would not even let me pay him the interest."

"I know all that, Bernardin; I know all that; but, you see, I don't ask you for the interest either. You are welcome to keep it; buy bonbons for your children with it."

"My children have all they need, monsieur; and I make it a point to fulfil my engagements."

"There is no real obligation in this case, as I have no note, no receipt, from you."

"Between honest men there's no need of any writing, monsieur. I offered your father a note, and he positively refused; just as he forbade me ever to repay the principal on which I pay you the interest."

"And you are to pay the interest only ten years; I know that too."

"Oh! as to that, monsieur, I made your father no answer when he added that condition; but I shall do my duty."

And the honest coal dealer took his departure, leaving with Arthur the small sum he had brought.

When the thirty-five thousand francs a year had disappeared, and Arthur was reduced to the necessity of turning his furniture into cash, he received less scornfully the hundred and thirty-seven francs fifty centimes which Bernardin never failed to bring him on the first of each of the months when rent falls due.

One day, Cherami, having no more furniture, jewels, or horses to sell, had taken a furnished lodging, when Bernardin brought him his quarterly interest. The faithful coal dealer was informed as to the conduct of his former employer's son; he had watched the young man squander in riotous living the fortune which his parents had amassed with such unremitting toil; sell the house they had left him; then move from a fine hôtel to a more modest apartment, and finally to furnished lodgings. Bernardin had never ventured to make the slightest comment; but at each new downward plunge of the young man, he heaved a profound sigh, and said to himself:

"O my poor master! it's very fortunate that you do not see your son's conduct!"

Now, on the day in question, Arthur, being absolutely penniless, was overjoyed when his paltry income arrived; but as Bernardin, having paid the money, was about to leave him, he detained him, saying:

"Look you, Monsieur Bernardin, I have a proposition to make to you."

"I am listening, monsieur."

"You bring me regularly the interest on the eleven thousand francs which you received from my father; you would be perfectly justified, however, in ceasing to pay it; for more than ten years have passed, and——"

"I think I have told you, monsieur, that I should continue to pay it; I should not consider that I had paid my debt, otherwise."

"Very good! Far be it from me to blame such scrupulous probity; but I am going to propose to you a method of paying your debt once for all. Give me a thousand crowns—three thousand francs—cash; that will gratify me, indeed, it will be a favor to me, because with three thousand francs one can do something, you know; whereas I can't do anything at all with your hundred and thirty-seven francs. So give me that amount in cash, and I will discharge you entirely and you'll have no more interest to pay me. Is that satisfactory?"

"No, monsieur; I can't do that."

"Why not, if I am satisfied?"

"It wouldn't satisfy me to discharge a life-rent of five hundred and fifty francs for three thousand francs; that would be usury."

"What are you talking about with your usury? if it suits me, if I ask it as a favor——"

"No, monsieur; I must not accept this proposition."

"Very well! then give me the eleven thousand francs you received, as you're so finical in the matter of probity. In that way, your conscience will be altogether at rest, and we shall both be satisfied."

"No, monsieur; I will not hand you the principal sum which I received, because your father expressly forbade me to do it. That was the first condition on which he let me have the money; and who knows if he didn't read the future then? if he didn't foresee that the day would come when this small income would be his son's last resource?"

"Monsieur Bernardin, you presume to——"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I do not presume at all. But monsieur must realize that I am aware of his position."

"My position? Why, pardieu! it's the position of all young men who have lived well, who have amused themselves, and adored the ladies."

"True, monsieur; but perhaps you have been too kind, too generous, to them."

"I have done what I chose; if I could begin over again, I would do the same."

"I don't doubt it, monsieur; and, of course, you are at liberty to dispose of your own property."

"Yes, to be sure I am—that is to say, I was. Come, Bernardin, won't you give me the eleven thousand francs?"

"No, monsieur; for, from above, your father would blame me."

"Give me a thousand crowns, then."

"Not that, either; but I shall continue to pay monsieur the interest; and if I should die to-morrow, my children would continue to pay it. Oh! it's a sacred thing, and monsieur can rely upon it."

"Very good! pay me three years in advance: sixteen hundred and fifty francs. You can't refuse me that?"

"Excuse me, monsieur; I do refuse, and in your own interest; for you would spend the three years' interest in less than six months; and then you would not have even that trifling resource."

"Monsieur Bernardin, do you refuse to make me any advance?"

"I cannot do it, monsieur."

"Very well! off with you, then; I have my cue!"

Bernardin saluted his late master's son with the utmost respect, and took his leave.

Some time after, when he was in a most desperate plight, Arthur Cherami had renewed his urgent solicitations to Bernardin, in the hope of obtaining a little interest in advance or a portion of the principal; but all his entreaties were of no avail. The old fellow was not to be moved, and his resolution was the more inflexible because he knew that by acting thus he was saving a modest income for his benefactor's son.

The years passed. Far from becoming wiser in the school of adversity, the ci-devant Beau Arthur retained the same passions, the same faults, and the same impertinence, as in his prosperous days. Doubtless forty-six francs a month is a very small allowance; it amounts to about thirty sous per day; and when with that amount a man must board, lodge, and clothe himself, he must needs live very sparingly. However, in this Paris of ours, where living is said to be so expensive, since the opening of those beneficent establishments for the sale of soup and cooked beef, and especially since those establishments have conceived the happy idea of serving their own products, a man may dine for seven sous; yes, reader, for seven sous! to wit: soup, two sous; beef, three sous; bread, two sous. And that man will have eaten more healthful and more nourishing food than he who, for thirty-two sous, regales himself with soup, his choice of three entrées, dessert, bread at discretion, and a pint of wine.

But when Monsieur Cherami received his quarterly interest, instead of husbanding that small sum, his last resource, paying some few debts, and dining inexpensively at one of the soup-kitchens, he would betake himself, with head erect and an arrogant air, to one of the best restaurants in Paris, take his seat with a great flourish, call the waiter, and order a sumptuous dinner of the daintiest dishes and the most expensive wines; and all in such wise that everybody who was in the room could hear him. In short, he would resume his rôle of dandy, forgetting that he no longer wore the costume of the rôle, yet imposing respect on the multitude by his lordly manner.

Some said: "He's an original, who affects a shabby costume to conceal the fact that he's a millionaire." Others: "He is some foreigner, some eminent personage, who desires to remain incognito in Paris."

And the waiters served promptly and with the utmost respect this party in a threadbare frock-coat, who ate truffled partridges and drank champagne frappé; and when he paid his bill, Cherami never took the change which the waiter brought him, even if it amounted to two or three francs.

"All right!" he would cry; "keep that; it's for you!"

Thereupon, the waiter would bow to the ground before so generous a patron; and he would stalk forth proudly from the restaurant, enchanted with the effect he had produced. And the next morning he would have nothing with which to procure a dinner.

I beg you not to believe that this character is an imaginary one; that there are no men foolish enough to act in this way; there are, and many of them. For our own part, we have known more than one.

But when naught remained of the small quarterly payment, he had to live anew on loans and stratagems; he had to content himself with the very modest fare of a cheap restaurant, where the mistress was willing to supply him on credit because he flattered her and compared her with Venus, although she was blear-eyed and had a purple nose. In that place he could not order champagne and truffles, to be sure; that would have been a waste of time; but Cherami found a way, none the less, to make a sensation: shouting louder than anybody else, bewildering everybody with his chatter, and always having some marvellous adventure to relate, of which he was the hero, and in which he had performed wonderful exploits. If one of his auditors seemed to doubt the veracity of his narrative, he would insult him, threaten him, challenge him, insist on fighting him instanter, and, in order to pacify my gentleman and restore peace, the person abused must needs treat him to nothing less than a cup of coffee followed by a petit verre of liqueur. As for the waiters, as he had nothing to give them, he treated them like dogs, and threatened them with his switch when they did not serve him promptly enough.

If, instead of passing his time in smoking and loitering, Monsieur Cherami had chosen to do something, he might have increased his income, and have lived without constantly resorting to loans. He was well informed; he retained from his early education a superficial idea of many things; he knew quite a lot, in fact, and might have passed for a scholar in the eyes of those who knew nothing. His handwriting was so good that he could have obtained work as a copyist. In his youth, he had studied music, and he could play the violin a little; he might have made something of his talent in that direction and have found a place in the orchestra of a second-class theatre, or played in dance-halls for the grisette and the mechanic.

But the ci-devant Beau Arthur considered every sort of work that was suggested to him very far beneath him; he thought that he would degrade himself by becoming a copyist or a minstrel, and he was not ashamed to borrow a hundred sous when he knew that he could not repay them. What do such people understand by the word honor? Let us conclude that they fashion a kind of honor for their own use, just as some painters paint scenes from nature in which there is nothing natural, but which by common consent are called conventional nature.

One day, when he was without a sou, having been denied by all those from whom he had sought to borrow, and not daring to go to his cheap restaurant, because the mistress was absent, Cherami found himself confronted by the stern necessity of going without a mouthful of dinner, when it occurred to him to call upon his payer of interest. So he set out for the abode of the coal dealer, saying to himself on the way:

"Bernardin always refuses to make me the smallest advance; but, sacrebleu! when I tell him that I have nothing with which to pay for a dinner, it isn't possible that he will let me starve to death."

The modest tradesman was just about to sit down to dinner with his family when Cherami appeared, crying:

"The deuce! it would seem that you are about to dine! You're very lucky! For my part, I haven't the means to pay for a dinner. Lend me a crown, Bernardin, so that I can satisfy my hunger, too."

"I never have money to loan," the coal dealer replied respectfully; "but if monsieur will do us the honor to take a seat at our table, we shall be happy to offer him a share of our modest dinner."

"Oho! that's your game! Well, so be it!" rejoined Cherami, taking his seat without further parley.

But Bernardin's dinner was very simple; it consisted of soup, beef, and a dish of potatoes. The wine was Argenteuil, and very new.

Cherami exclaimed that the soup was watery, the beef tough, and the wine execrable; for dessert there was nothing but a piece of Géromé cheese, which he declared to be fit only for masons; and he was much surprised that they did not take coffee after the meal; in short, he rose from the table in a vile humor, saying to Bernardin and his wife:

"You live very badly, my dears; you live like rustics; I shall not dine with you again."

That was his only word of thanks to his hosts.

VIII
THE RESTAURANT IN PARC SAINT-FARGEAU

On the day on which our tale opens, Arthur Cherami found himself anew in this perplexing plight, which was aggravated by the circumstance that he had gone without dinner on the preceding day.

To be sure, he had only to go to Bernardin's, where he was very sure that they would not refuse to give him a dinner, in default of cash. But you know that our ex-high-liver was far from satisfied with the meal of which he had partaken at the coal dealer's board; not only did he find everything bad, for my gentleman, even in his poverty, was still very hard to please, but he had discovered that at his debtor's house it would be of no use for him to try to blaguer—that is to say, to put on airs, to lie, to display his impertinence. The coal dealer's family did not even smile at the extraordinary tales he told, and it was that fact which had irritated Cherami even more than the simplicity of the dinner, perhaps. At the cheap resort to which he was obliged to go sometimes, he was content with a wretched, ill-cooked dish, because, while he ate it, he could talk at the top of his voice, speechify, and force most of the habitués of the place to listen to him. We know how he compelled those who ventured not to believe all that he said to pay for his coffee.

Arthur had no business whatever at the omnibus office, but he knew that one frequently meets acquaintances at such places. Amid the constant going and coming, departures and arrivals, it is no uncommon thing to meet someone whom you have not seen for a long time, and whom you did not know to be in Paris. So that Arthur, who had nothing to do, frequently visited the railroad stations, where he walked to and fro in front of the ticket offices, as if he were expecting someone; and, in fact, he was always expecting that chance would bring there some acquaintance from whom he could borrow five francs.

Or he would go and take his stand in front of an omnibus office, always with the same hope. On this occasion he had, in fact, met several acquaintances, but the result had not fulfilled his expectations. Coldly greeted by Papa Blanquette, repulsed by Madame Capucine, he was beginning to think that he should not make his expenses, and he said to himself, but not aloud as usual:

"Sapristi! what times are these we live in? The world is becoming vile beyond cleansing! No courtesy, no affability, no good manners! Formerly, when I met a friend, my first words were: 'You must come to dine with me.'—He might accept or not, but I had made the offer. To-day, I meet nobody but cads, who are very careful not to offer me the slightest thing; indeed, many of them presume to pass me by, and act as if they didn't know me. There are others who carry their insolence so far as to dare to ask me for some paltry hundred-sou pieces which they have loaned me and I have not paid. Pardieu! I've loaned them plenty of 'em in the old days; and I never asked for them, because I knew it would be of no use. As if one ever returned money loaned among friends! As if what belongs to one doesn't belong to the other! That's the way I understand friendship—that noble, genuine friendship which united Castor and Pollux, Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades. Do we find in the Iliad that Patroclus ever said to Achilles: 'I loaned you a hundred sous, or twenty francs; I want you to pay them'? Bah! nothing of the sort; there's no instance in history of such a thing! And I defy all my former companions in pleasure to cite a single one. However, I am conscious to-day that the need of eating is making itself felt; I can't go to my little cabaret on Rue Basse-du-Temple, for the mistress is sick; her husband takes her place at the desk, and he is always ill-disposed toward me; he presumes to ask me for money! Vile turnspit! do you suppose I would go to your place for food if I had money? Ah! there's Bernardin; I am sure of a dinner there; but I am horribly bored with those good people. And then, it wounds my self-esteem to dine with one of my father's former clerks. Corbleu! can it be that, like Titus, I have wasted my day?"

And Cherami, still tapping his trousers with his switch, cast his eyes about him. Thereupon he spied the two girls who were waiting to go to Belleville.

"There are two little grisettes, whose aspect rather pleases me," he said to himself, throwing his weight on his left hip; "a blonde and a brunette—meat for the king's attorney, as we used to say at the club. They're pretty hussies both; the blonde has a rather stupid look, but the dark one has wit in her eye.—Suppose I should try to make a conquest by offering them a good dinner? Ten to one, they'll accept! I know the sex; these girls are so fond of eating! Yes, but in that case—they'll have to pay for the dinner; that might embarrass them, and I don't want to embarrass any woman. But if I did, I should do no more than avenge myself."

While making these reflections, Cherami had walked toward the young women; he struck a pose in front of them, humming a lively tune, and darted a glance at them into which he put all the seductiveness of which he was still capable. The young women looked at each other and laughed heartily; Mademoiselle Laurette went so far as to say, in a bantering tone:

"That must be a smoke-pipe from the Opéra-Comique that has a vent in this neighborhood; however, it's better than an escape of gas."

"Aha! we are clever and satirical!" said Cherami, addressing Mademoiselle Laurette; "I had guessed as much, simply by observing your saucy face."

"Why, I don't know what you mean, monsieur!" replied the girl, trying to assume a serious expression.

"I was simply answering the reflection in which you just indulged on the subject of a roulade which I ventured to perform, and which, perhaps, was not rendered with perfect accuracy."

"But, monsieur, I really didn't know that you were singing; I was saying to my friend Lucie that we should be very late in getting to the restaurant in Parc Saint-Fargeau, and that I didn't know whether there was dancing there on Saturday."

"Aha! so the young ladies are going to Parc Saint-Fargeau?—That is just beyond Belleville, I believe?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And there's a restaurant there now, where they have dancing? Pardon me, I ask simply for information, being a great lover of places where one can dine well—and enjoy one's self; and it's a long while since I have been in that neighborhood."

"In that case, you'll find great changes. Yes, monsieur; there is a restaurant now in Parc Saint-Fargeau, with a large garden where there's a pond. But it's no toy pond; it's big enough for a boat, and you can go rowing; it's quite big, and there's an island in it which you can row around if you're very careful, for the water's quite deep."

"You can be drowned in it," observed Mademoiselle Lucie.

"Oho! one has also the right to drown one's self, eh?"

"Why, yes! if you should fall into the water!"

"True. And there's a dance-hall, you say?"

"Yes, monsieur; one out-of-doors, and one inside for rainy days."

"Good; I see that everything is complete; and if, with all the rest, the cooking is good——"

"Very good; and they give you fine matelotes, because they catch the fish on the spot."

"This rustic restaurant will certainly receive a call from me very soon; indeed, I would go there to-day—delighted to take the trip with you, mesdemoiselles—if I were not expecting someone—who, I am beginning to think, will not come. It's an infernal shame! we are invited to dine at the Palais-Royal; it's almost five o'clock now, and we shall break our engagement and they'll dine without us, all on his account!"

"You'll dine somewhere else; that's all. There's no lack of restaurants in Paris."

"Vive Dieu! who knows that better than I! So I have no difficulty on that score—that is to say, I don't know which to select, and if you young ladies will do me the honor to accept a little dinner in the suburbs——"

"Thanks, monsieur; but we don't accept dinners; besides, we are to meet someone at Parc Saint-Fargeau."

"That's just the reason I venture to invite them," said Cherami to himself.—"Are you young ladies engaged in business?" he asked.

"Yes, monsieur; we make feathers; we work in one of the best shops on Rue Saint-Denis; but to-day is the mistress's birthday; that's why we have the whole day to ourselves."

"Enchanted to have made your acquaintance. Ah! so you're in feathers—a charming trade for a woman! They have the same volatility: birds of a feather flock together."

"Is he talking nonsense to us?" whispered Mademoiselle Lucie in her friend's ear.

"Why, no, stupid; not at all; that's a compliment."

"Belleville! passengers for Belleville!"

"Here's the Belleville 'bus, Laurette, and they're making signs that there are seats for us."

"Oh! we must run, then. Bonjour! monsieur."

"What! you are going so soon! I thought—I hoped——"

The two girls were already in the omnibus, which soon disappeared. Cherami turned on his heel, muttering:

"They were shrewd to refuse my dinner. Peste! how should I have got out of it? I'm not sorry to have had a chat with the little dears—one's name is Laurette, and the other's Lucie, or Lucile; they may be desirable acquaintances, on occasion; if I ever want to buy feathers, for instance."

IX
ANOTHER WEDDING PARTY

A young man of some twenty-five years, fashionably dressed, but whose costume was in some disorder, suddenly appeared upon the scene. He was walking very fast, and did not stop until he reached the porte cochère of the Deffieux restaurant. There he halted, and gazed under the porte cochère with every indication of anxiety, not to say distress; then looked all about him and along the boulevard. From the pallor of his cheeks, the distortion of his features, the expression of his eyes, it was easy to see that he was suffering keenly, and that his distress was augmented by the expectation of some impending event. Cherami had no sooner espied the young man, than the latter ran to where he stood and said, in a trembling voice:

"Have you been here some time, monsieur?"

"Why, yes, monsieur; quite a long time."

"I beg your pardon, but in that case you can tell me—— Have you noticed a wedding party arrive at this restaurant?"

"A wedding party? Certainly, I have seen one; it's only a short time since the carriages went away."

"They have arrived already? I thought I should be here before them."

"No; you are late."

"They have gone in?"

"Yes, monsieur; I had a very good view of the bride."

"You saw Fanny?"

"I don't know whether her name's Fanny, I'm sure; but what I do know is that she's very pretty."

"Oh! yes, monsieur; she's charming, isn't she?"

"She's a very pretty bride, without being a beauty."

"Oh! monsieur, there's no lovelier woman on earth."

"That's a matter of taste. I don't propose to contradict you."

"Was she pale, trembling? did she look as if she had been crying?"

"Why, not at all! She was fresh and rosy and affable; she laughed as she jumped out of the carriage; then I saw her figure, which isn't so bad, although she's a little stout."

"Stout! why, no! she's slender and rather small."

"I tell you, she's decidedly plump. But that does no harm in a blonde; a thin blonde is too much like a feather-duster."

"Blonde? Fanny is dark! You made a mistake, monsieur; it wasn't the bride that you saw."

"It wasn't the bride that I saw? Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can't be mistaken, for I talked with the groom's uncle, whom I know very well, Papa Blanquette, wholesale linen-draper."

"Blanquette! I beg your pardon, monsieur; the party you saw isn't the one I am expecting."

"Faith! it's not my fault. You ask me if a wedding party has arrived at this restaurant, and I tell you what I've seen. It seems that that isn't the one you are looking for; pray be more explicit, then."

"Oh! monsieur, pardon me; it's no wonder that I make mistakes, I am in such agony!"

"Agony? The deuce! In truth, you are very pale. Where's the pain?"

"In my heart!"

"The heart? Why, in that case, you must take something. Come with me to a café; I know what you need; I often have a pain in my heart."

"No, no! I won't leave this spot until I have seen her—the perfidious, faithless creature!"

"You are waiting for a faithless creature, eh? That ought not to prevent your taking something to set you up. You are horribly pale; you'll be ill in a moment. When one is waiting for a perfidious female, one needs strength, courage, nerve! Come and take a plate of soup; there's a soup-kitchen close by."

"Ah! here they are! here they are! Yes, I am sure that these are they; I know it by the way I feel. Look, monsieur; do you see those carriages on the boulevard?"

"Yes, this seems to be another wedding party. Peste! this is evidently a swell affair."

"The carriages are coming here—do you see, monsieur?"

"Glass coaches, with footmen in livery!—this goes away ahead of the Blanquette party."

"They are stopping here. Come, let us go nearer."

"Yes, yes. Oh! never fear; I'll not leave you. Is your unfaithful one there?"

"Fanny! She has married another—and I loved her so dearly!"

"Poor boy! I understand your suffering, now."

"Oh! I would like to die before her eyes."

"No nonsense! As if any man ought to die for a woman! Pshaw! there's nothing so easy to replace!"

The first carriage of this second wedding party had stopped at the door; four young men alighted, fashionably dressed all, and of genteel bearing. One of the four was evidently the hero of the ceremony; it was he who gave the orders, sent his groomsmen to the other carriages, or told them to whom they were to offer their arms. He was a little older than the others, apparently about thirty, and his life had evidently been well occupied, for his strongly marked, but jaded, features denoted excess of toil or of dissipation. He was a good-looking fellow, tall and slender, with an air of distinction; but there were dark rings around his great, brown eyes, his lips were thin and compressed, his smile was rather satirical than amiable, his forehead was already furrowed by numerous wrinkles, and he frowned repeatedly when he spoke with the slightest animation; his hair, which was of a glossy black and trimmed close, was already decidedly thin in front, and scarcely plentiful enough elsewhere to protect the top of his head.

"That's he! that's Auguste Monléard!" the young man to whom Cherami had attached himself murmured, with a shudder; and, as he spoke, he gripped his companion's arm in a sort of frenzy. But Cherami, far from complaining of that liberty, passed his arm through his new acquaintance's, saying:

"Ah! that young man is Auguste Monléard, is he? Wait! wait! Monléard; I knew a Monléard, twenty years ago, but this can't be the same man. Is he the groom?"

"Yes; it is for him that she has forgotten me, thrown me aside."

"She is wrong. That young man is good-looking, but you are younger; and then, too, that fellow looks to me as if he had had a devilishly intimate acquaintance with the joys of life!—I don't impute it to him as a crime—but he'll soon have to wear a wig."

"Ah! I am strongly inclined to go and strike him across the face!"

The young man had already started to attack the bridegroom; but Cherami detained him, putting his arm about him.

"What are you going to do? make a fool of yourself? I won't allow it. Well-bred people don't fight with their fists. If you want to fight with the groom, very good; I consent, I will even be your second; but you have plenty of time, and you must agree that this would be an ill-chosen moment."

The poor, lovelorn youth was not listening; another carriage had stopped in front of the restaurant. In that one there were ladies, among them the bride, who was easily recognizable by her head-dress of orange blossoms. She was a young woman of small stature, slender and dainty. Her hair was brown like her eyes, which were large, fringed by long lashes, and surmounted by slight but perfectly arched eyebrows. Her mouth was small and intelligent; she rarely showed her teeth, because they were uneven. She was an attractive woman, nothing more; a man must have been deeply in love with her to declare that there was no lovelier creature on earth. But for a man who is deeply enamored, there is but the one woman on earth; consequently, she must be the fairest. The bride's most remarkable points were her hands and feet, which were extraordinarily small, and worthy to be a sculptor's model.

The groom stepped forward to offer his arm to his wife, to assist her to alight. She barely rested her hand upon it, and, light as a feather, she was already on the ground, where she seemed busily occupied in looking to see if her dress had been rumpled in the carriage.

"There she is! it is she! it is Fanny!" murmured the young man, leaning heavily on Cherami.

"She doesn't look to me at all as if she'd been crying," was the reply.

"Mon Dieu! can it be that she will not look in this direction?"

"What's the use? She would see that you are pale and distressed, with the look of a disinterred corpse; that's no way to appear before a woman, to make her regret you."

"She would see how I suffer; she would realize that I shall die of grief!"

"I promise you that that wouldn't prevent her dancing this evening. I am a good judge of faces, and I divine that that woman has a cold disposition, heart ditto; there's very little feeling under that cover, or I am immeasurably mistaken."

Meanwhile, other ladies had left their carriages, and numerous young women, who flocked about the bride; one fastened a pin; another adjusted the folds of her veil; another remade her bouquet; and while they attended to these trivial details of the toilet, which are so momentous in a woman's eyes, especially a bride's, she glanced here and there, and soon her eyes fell upon the pale, dishevelled, heart-broken young man; for he had thrust aside all those who stood in front of him and who prevented him from gazing at his ease upon her for whom he had come here.

A faint tremor of emotion passed over the bride's features; there was in her eyes a momentary expression of pity, of sympathy; but it did not indicate suffering on her own part; and as her husband, who had noticed her preoccupation, hurried toward her at that moment, she speedily changed her expression, assumed an amiable, joyous manner, and accepted his arm with pretty, caressing little gestures.

Thereupon the young man, whom Cherami held by the arm, could not restrain a paroxysm of rage, crying:

"Oh! this is frightful! not a glance of regret, of farewell, for me! She sees my suffering, my despair, and she smiles at that man! and she walks off on his arm, with joy and happiness in her eyes!"

X
THE YOUNGER SISTER

At that moment, one of the young women who had arrived in the bride's carriage ran hastily to him whom the wedding party made so miserable, and said to him in an undertone, but in a voice overflowing with kindness and sympathy:

"Why are you here, Gustave? Why did you come? You promised me to be brave."

"I am, mademoiselle; you see that I am—for I did not overwhelm the false creature with reproaches, here, before her husband's face, before her new relations!"

"Ah! that would have been very ill done of you; and how would it have helped you? I implore you, Gustave, be reasonable.—Do not leave him, monsieur, will you?"

The last question was addressed to Cherami, who hastened to reply:

"I! leave my dear Gustave in the state he's in now! I should think not! What do you take me for, mademoiselle? I will cling to him as the ivy to the elm. If he should throw himself into the water, I would follow him! But, never fear; he won't do it. Oh! I am here to look out for him; he has no more devoted friend than me."

At that moment, several voices called:

"Adolphine! Adolphine! do come!"

"They are looking for me and calling me," murmured the young woman. "Adieu! Gustave; but if you have the slightest regard for me, you will not abandon yourself to your grief. You won't, will you? I implore you!"

And the amiable young woman, as light of foot as a gazelle, disappeared under the porte cochère, as did all the other persons whom the carriages had brought.

"There's a little woman who pleases me exceedingly!" cried Cherami; "she must be the bride's sister or cousin, at least. For my part, I think that she's prettier than the bride. Perhaps her eyes aren't as big; but they are sweet and tender and kind; and then, they are blue, which always denotes true feeling: I have studied the subject. Her hair's not as dark as the other's, but it's of a light shade of chestnut which does not lack merit. Her mouth isn't so small, but neither are her lips so thin and tightly shut as the bride's. Distrust thin lips; they're a sure sign of malignity and hypocrisy. Lastly, she is less dainty than your faithless Fanny, but she is taller; her figure has more distinction and elegance. All in all, she is an exceedingly attractive person, this Mademoiselle Adolphine; I say mademoiselle, for I suppose that she still is one. Have I guessed right?"

But Gustave was not listening to his new friend. He stood with his eyes fixed on the door through which the wedding party had passed, apparently under the spell of a vague hallucination.

Cherami shook his arm, saying:

"Well, my dear Monsieur Gustave—I know your name now, and I shall never forget it; you probably have another, which you will tell me later. Come, what do you propose to do? Everybody has gone inside; we two alone are left at the door; the carriages have gone away, or are waiting on Rue de Bondy, and you have seen what you wanted to see. I presume that you do not intend to stay here until the wedding guests go home to bed; that might carry you too far. Come, sacrebleu my dear friend—allow me to call you by that name; I merit the privilege by the interest I take in you—you heard what that fascinating young woman said, who came and spoke to you with tears in her voice and her eyes—yes, may I be damned if she hadn't tears in her eyes, too! She begged you, implored you, to be brave, did the charming Adolphine—I remember her name, too. Well! won't you do what she asked? What the devil are you waiting for in front of this door? those people have all gone to dinner, and we must follow their example and ourselves go and dine. I say we must go, because I promised the excellent Adolphine not to leave you, and, vive Dieu! I will keep my promise! I am expected at a certain place, to eat a truffled turkey; but there are truffled turkeys elsewhere, so that doesn't trouble me. Well! what do you mean to do? You can't seduce a woman by starving yourself to death."

"I want to speak to Fanny's sister."

"The bride's sister? Oh! I see, that's Mademoiselle Adolphine."

"Yes, she's the one I mean. I had many things to say to her, to ask her, just now. I was so confused, I couldn't think, I had no time."

"You want to speak to that young lady again; that seems to me rather difficult, for the whole party has gone in—unless—after all, why not? This is a restaurant, and although there are several wedding parties here, that doesn't prevent the restaurateur from entertaining all the other people who come here to dinner. Come, let's dine here; what do you think?"

"Oh! yes, yes! let us go in here and dine. We will ask for a private room near the wedding party, and during the ball—or before—I can see her again. I can speak to Adolphine."

"Pardieu! once there, we are in our castle; we will set up our batteries, and no one has the right to send us away; we can sup there, and breakfast to-morrow morning; so long as we eat, they will be delighted to have us stay."

"Ah! monsieur, how kind you are to take an interest in my troubles, to lend me your support, although you do not know me, do not know even who I am!"

"Oh! I am a physiognomist, my dear friend. At the very outset, you aroused my interest; besides, I love to oblige; I do nothing else! Let's go and dine."

"We will ask where the Monléard party is, monsieur; we will take a room on the same floor."

"Agreed! Let's go and dine."

"Without any apparent motive, I will question the waiter. Indeed, I can speedily enlist him in my interest with a five-franc piece."

"He will be entirely devoted to you. Let's go and dine."

"I will tell him to place us as near as possible to the room where the ladies are talking."

"But, sacrebleu! if we delay much longer, there'll be no vacant room near your wedding party."

"You are right! Come, come!"

"At last!" said Cherami to himself, striding behind young Gustave; "this time, I have my cue!"

XI
A CALCULATING YOUNG WOMAN

The five francs given by young Gustave to a waiter instantly produced a most satisfactory result. He placed the new-comers in a private room on the first floor, at the end of a corridor; and the large hall in which Monsieur Monléard's wedding feast was to be given was at the other end of the same corridor. Gustave would have preferred to be nearer the scene of festivity, but that was impossible; and his companion persuaded him that they were much better off at the end of the corridor, where Mademoiselle Adolphine could, if she chose, come to exchange a few words with him, unobserved by the wedding guests.

"And now, let us dine!" cried Cherami, hanging his hat on a hook; "I will admit that I am hungry. All these events—your distress—your despair—have moved me deeply, and emotion makes one hollow. You also must feel the need of refreshment, for you are very pale."

"I am not at all hungry, monsieur."

"One isn't hungry at first; but afterward one eats very well. Besides, we came here to dine, if I'm not mistaken."

"Look you, monsieur; have the kindness to order—ask for whatever you choose—whatever you would like; but don't compel me to think about it."

"Very good; I agree. In truth, I am inclined to think that's the better way! With your abstraction, your sighs, you would never be able to order a dinner; you would order veal for fish, and radishes for prawns, while I excel in that part of the game. You see, I have lived, and lived well, I flatter myself! Some madeira first of all, waiter—and put some Moët in the ice; meanwhile, I will make out our menu!"

The madeira having been brought, Cherami immediately drank two glasses to restore the tone of his stomach; then he took the bill of fare, and took pains to order the best of everything. The waiter, who scrutinized our friend's costume while he was writing, would probably have displayed less zeal in serving him, had not his companion begun by slipping five francs into his hand. But that spontaneous generosity had given another direction to the waiter's ideas, and he concluded that the gentleman with the check trousers was a Scotchman who had not changed his travelling costume.

While Cherami wrote his order, young Gustave was unable to sit still for a moment; he went constantly to the door and took a few steps in the corridor, then returned to question the waiter, to whose particular attention Cherami commended his menu.

"Waiter, is the wedding party at table yet?"

"They sat down just a moment ago, monsieur."

"Above all things, don't have the fillet cooked too much."

"Never fear, monsieur."

"Where is the bride sitting?"

"At the middle of the table, monsieur."

"And well supplied with truffles."

"By whose side?"

"I think her father's on one side, monsieur."

"And on the other?"

"A salmon-trout."

"A lady, monsieur."

"If it isn't fresh, we won't take it."

"How is the lady's hair dressed?"

"She has lilies of the valley on her head."

"What's that! lilies of the valley on a salmon-trout! I never saw it served so."

"Not the trout, monsieur; I was speaking of a lady—one of the wedding party."

"And the groom, where is he sitting?"

"Opposite his wife, monsieur."

"Next, a capon au gros sel."

"Does he look at her often?"

"Done to a turn."

"Faith! monsieur, I didn't have time to notice as to that."

"What's that! Sapristi! you haven't time to tell the chef to cook it to a turn?"

"Pardon, monsieur; monsieur was asking me about the bridegroom.—Now I am at your service."

And the waiter, to escape these questions, which confused him, took the menu and disappeared. Cherami poured out another glass of madeira, saying to his new friend:

"Come, come, my dear Gustave; if you persist in imitating the bear of Berne, by going from this room into the corridor, and returning from the corridor to this room, you won't do yourself any good. You know that the wedding party is at the table. Naturally, they will be there some time. So follow their example. Take a seat opposite me, recover your tranquillity, and let us dine. See, here's our soup, just in time, exhaling a delicious odor. Allow me to help you."

The young man took his seat, and swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup; then pushed his plate away, crying:

"No; it's impossible for me to eat anything."

"Very well! then talk to me. Look you, while I am eating, as you don't choose to do the same, you have an excellent opportunity to tell me the story of your loves—with the ungrateful Fanny."

"Oh! yes, monsieur, gladly. I will tell you all, and you will see if I am wrong to complain of her inconstancy."

"Men are hardly ever wrong. Go on, my dear friend; tell me the whole story; I shall not lose a word of your narrative, because one can listen splendidly while eating."

"My name is Gustave Darlemont, and I am twenty-five years old. My parents lived on their income; but in order to obtain the means to live more expensively, they invested all their capital in an annuity."

"The devil! rather selfish parents, I should say. If everyone did the same, the word inheritance would be superfluous. Here's a fillet that is worth its weight in gold. Just taste it."

"No, thanks, monsieur.—For my part, I find no fault with my parents for doing as they did; they had earned their fortune by their own labor, they had given me a good education: what more could I ask?"

"You are delightful! Pardieu! you could ask for money. Let me give you some of this Château-Léoville.—It's cool and sweet—it will refresh your ideas. Go on, I beg."

"My parents died, and from what they left me in furniture, jewels, and plate, I had an income of twelve hundred francs."

"A mere trifle! that's not enough to pay one's tailor. To be sure, there's the alternative of not paying him at all."

"I was then seventeen; I didn't know just what business to embrace."

"And, pending your decision, you embraced all the pretty girls who came to hand. I know all about that."

"Oh! no, monsieur; I was very virtuous; I have never been what is called a lady's man."

"So much the worse, young man; so much the worse! There's nothing like women for training the young. You may say that they overtrain them sometimes. But think of the experience they acquire! I might cite myself as an example; but we haven't come to me yet. Go on, my young friend—for I am your friend. Although Aristotle said: 'O my friends, there are no friends!' I maintain that there are. And that's simply a play upon words by the Greek philosopher, to whom, had I been Philip, I would not have intrusted the education of my son Alexander, because of that one assertion.—But I beg your pardon; I am listening."

"Luckily, I had an uncle, Monsieur Grandcourt, my mother's brother. He took me into his family. He is rather an original, but kind and obliging. He is not an old man: only about forty-eight now."

"So much the worse, so much the worse! You certainly have hard luck in the matter of inheritances. Is this uncle of yours rich?"

"Not rich perhaps, but very comfortably fixed, I fancy."

"What does he do?"

"He's a banker."

"Everybody is, more or less."

"Oh! my uncle is a prudent man, who never risks his money in doubtful speculations; he is noted for the exactitude with which he fulfils his engagements, and for his absolute probity."

"Good! there's a man to whom I will intrust my funds, when I have more than I can handle."

"So I entered my uncle's employ as a clerk. I was very happy there. We often went to the theatre, to concerts, and to the best restaurants; and my uncle always paid."

"Pardieu! it would have been a fine thing if the nephew had had to stand treat! However, I see that your uncle's not a miser; he likes to enjoy himself. That's the kind of an uncle I like. I shall be glad to make his acquaintance."

"I have now arrived, monsieur, at the moment which changed the whole course of my life, which made me acquainted with a sentiment of whose power I had thus far been entirely ignorant. For, while I had had a few amourettes, I had never known a genuine passion. Ah! monsieur! the instant that I saw Fanny, I felt as if my heart were born to a new life; I was no longer the same. No, until then I had not lived!"

"That's a common sort of talk with lovers. They never have lived before their frantic passion,—the ingrates!—and they often forget the happiest days of their youth.—Ah! here's our salmon-trout—a delicious fish! You will surely taste a mouthful?"

"My uncle had bought some shares in the Orléans railway for Monsieur Gerbault, Fanny's father. He gave them to me to deliver to him. Monsieur Gerbault was not at home. Fanny received me, and invited me to wait till her father returned. We talked; I was amazed to hear that young girl discuss affairs at the Bourse quite as intelligently as a broker could do."

"And that was what fascinated you?"

"Oh! no, monsieur. But while Fanny was talking to me, I examined her. Her eyes were bright and intelligent; her smile was charming. Her whole person was instinct with a childish grace which fascinated me, and a perfect naturalness which put me at my ease at once. Before I had been with her half an hour, you would have thought that we were old friends. I took the greatest pleasure in listening to her, and I think that she perceived it, for she was never at a loss for something to say. Her father returned, and I was terribly sorry. Monsieur Gerbault is a very courteous old man. He smiled at me when he heard his daughter ask me the prices of all the different securities, and said:

"'It's very unfortunate for Fanny that women are not allowed on the Bourse, for I believe she would go there every day; she has a very pronounced taste for speculation; I dare not say for gambling, for I hope that it won't go so far as that. However, monsieur, she has five or six thousand francs, and so has her sister; it comes from their mother. Adolphine has very wisely invested her funds in government securities; but Fanny—oh! she's a different sort! she wants to speculate, to buy stocks, and she will probably lose her money.'

"'Why so, father, I should like to know?' said Fanny; 'why shouldn't luck be favorable to me? Besides, I don't mean to buy anything on margin, but only for cash; I shall keep what I buy, and not sell until I can sell at a profit. It seems to me that that is easy enough, and that there's no need of being a clerk in a broker's office to understand the operation. With my six thousand francs I could only get a miserable little income; why shouldn't I try to increase my principal?'

"'As you please,' said Monsieur Gerbault; 'you are perfectly at liberty to dispose of what belongs to you.'

"You can understand that I flattered the young woman's hopes, feeling as I did that I was already in love with her. I offered to keep her posted as to the general tendency of values on the Bourse and the financial situation. She accepted my offer; and Monsieur Gerbault, knowing that I was Monsieur Grandcourt's nephew, gave me free access to his house. In short, my dear—my dear—monsieur—I beg your pardon, but I don't as yet know your name."

"Pardieu! that's true; I had not thought to tell you. My name is Arthur Cherami, former land-holder, ci-devant premier high-liver of the capital. I set the fashion, I was the arbiter of style, and all the women doted on me. Oh! my story is very short: at twenty-two, I had thirty-five thousand francs a year; at thirty, I had nothing left. When I say nothing, I mean practically nothing; I still have a small remnant of income, a bagatelle, but my fortune is all eaten up. Well! young man, I give you my word of honor, that, if I could start afresh, I believe I would do the same again. I employed my youth to good purpose, and everybody can't say as much. For God's sake, must a man be old, infirm, and gouty, to enjoy life? You can't crack nuts when your teeth are all gone; therefore, you shouldn't wait till you're old to play the young man. Now, if I add that I am still a lusty fellow, as brave as Caesar, as gallant as François I, and as philosophical as Socrates, you will know me as well as if you had been my groom.—I have said."

"Very good! Your name, you say, is——? I beg your pardon, but I have forgotten it already."

"You are absent-minded; I can understand that. My name is Cherami, and I am yours, which constitutes a pun;[B] but, to avoid mistakes, call me Arthur; that is my Christian name, and all the ladies call me that. Sapristi! this is an excellent fish; do eat a bit of it."

"I prefer to talk to you of my love."

"So be it!—That won't give you indigestion. Meanwhile, I'll eat for two—and listen to you. Fire away!"

XII
GUSTAVE'S LOVE AFFAIR

"I was saying, Monsieur Arthur, that, as I had received permission to go to Monsieur Gerbault's house, you will divine that I took advantage of it."

"Yes, indeed.—This fish is perfect; you make a great mistake not to eat it."

"Monsieur Gerbault, formerly a clerk in one of the government offices, has only a modest fortune; he is a widower with two daughters, to both of whom he has given an excellent education. Fanny is talented; she is a good musician, and knows English and Italian."

"And her sister?"

"Adolphine plays the piano, too, and sings quite well. She is very sweet and of a very amiable disposition; but, you see, I didn't pay any attention to the sister; I had eyes for Fanny alone. Her grace, her wit, her lovely eyes, all combined to turn my head. She saw it plainly enough, and, far from repelling me, she seemed to try to redouble her charms, in order to make me more in love with her than ever."

"The devil! she's a shrewd coquette!"

"Oh! no, monsieur! but it's her nature always to make herself attractive; she can't help it."

"Here's the capon au gros sel.—Now's the time for the champagne frappé. Corbleu! you'll drink some of this."

"But, monsieur——"

"It will give you strength, nerve. Nobody knows what may happen to-night; a man should always be ready for action."

"A year passed; I had the good fortune to make some lucky turns for Fanny; she had made nearly three thousand francs in railroad shares; she was overjoyed, and was already dreaming of an immense fortune. I had told her that I loved her, and she had replied, with a smile, that she suspected as much. Thereupon, I asked her if she would marry me, and she replied: 'My father can give only twenty thousand francs to each of his daughters, and you know what I have besides. That doesn't make much of an income.'

"'What does it matter?' said I; 'I love you with all my heart; if you had no marriage portion at all, I should none the less consider myself the happiest of men if I could obtain your hand.—I have twelve hundred francs a year,' I added, 'and my uncle pays me eighteen hundred; you see that we shall have enough to live comfortably.'

"Fanny listened to me, and seemed to reflect; but I had taken her hand and squeezed it, and she did not take it away.

"'Are you willing,' I said, 'that I should prefer my suit to your father to-morrow?'

"'That's not necessary,' she replied; 'we have time enough; and then, you need have no fear in that respect; father has told me a hundred times that he would not interfere with my choice; that he was sure that I would not marry anyone who would not make me happy.'

"For my part, I wanted to be married at once, but Fanny desired to add a little more to her capital before marrying, so that she might have a more substantial dowry to offer me. It was of no use for me to say that I cared nothing about that; I could not make her listen to reason."

"If you took that for love, my dear Gustave, you can hardly claim to be a connoisseur.—Here's your very good health!"

"Ah! monsieur; Fanny was always so amiable! her eyes always had such a sweet look in them when they met mine! she had such pretty, caressing little ways with me!"

"Yes, yes, I know. The whole battery of the petticoat file!"

"Six months more passed, and I implored Fanny to fix a date for our wedding. Unluckily, her operations in railroads no longer showed a profit; the shares she had bought had gone down; it was necessary to wait; and Fanny was angry at the way things were going on the Bourse.—It was about that time—— Ah! it was then that my misfortunes began."

"Courage, dear Gustave!—and another glass of Moët! Do take a wing of this capon—just a bit of white meat. What! nothing? Well, then, sapristi! I will sacrifice myself and eat the whole bird. Never mind what the result may be; but I will drink, too, for I must wash it down.—Your health!"

"As I was saying, it was about this time that Monsieur Auguste Monléard made the acquaintance of the Gerbault family—at a ball, I believe; he asked and obtained from the father permission to come occasionally and play and sing with the young ladies. I did not know that until later, for I did not happen to meet him for some time. The very first time that I saw him, I had a presentiment that his presence in Monsieur Gerbault's house would be fatal to my love. This Monléard made a great parade; he had a cabriolet and a negro footman; indeed, he had, so it was said, forty thousand francs a year. All that would have been a matter of indifference to me, if I had not noticed that he was very attentive, very gallant, to Fanny. However, she continued to smile on me in the most charming way; but when I said to her: 'Fix a day for our wedding, I beg you, and let me speak to your father,' she replied: 'Oh! not yet; we have plenty of time; I must increase my capital first.'

"One morning, I had escaped from my duties at my uncle's, who scolded me sometimes because love led me to neglect business."

"Did your uncle approve your matrimonial plans?"

"Not very warmly; he had said to me several times: 'You're too young to marry; wait awhile.'

"But when he saw how dearly I loved Fanny, he finally said: 'Do as you please; but if I were in your place, I'd have nothing to do with a young woman who speculates in railroad stocks.'"

"I am much of your uncle's opinion."

"And he added: 'You know that I will not give you a sou to be married on, don't you?'

"I replied: 'And you know that I ask you for nothing but your affection.'"

"A noble reply! and one that binds you to nothing.—Have a glass of champagne."

"I have already had one."

"So much the more reason for taking another. I say, my boy, order us a Périgord macaroni, and a parfait à la vanille."

"Yes, monsieur."

"Waiter, how is the wedding party getting along?"

"They're at the second course, monsieur."

"They have not got beyond that!"

"What a delightful fellow this dear Gustave is! because he doesn't eat, he fancies that nobody else has any appetite."

"Is the bride eating, waiter?"

"Yes, monsieur; she's eating everything, I may say."

"Everything!"

Gustave angrily resumed his seat at the table, and held out his plate, saying to his companion:

"Very good! then I will eat, too! Give me some capon, Arthur; give me a lot of it!"

"Ah! good, good! spoken like a man! Now you're a man again! There's nothing left of the capon but one drumstick and the carcass, but they're the most delicate parts."

"Give them to me, give them to me! Oh! what a fool, what an idiot, I have been! To give way to despair for a woman who makes sport of me, who eats everything, when she knows that I am consumed by grief!"

"You acted like a fool, and that's just what I've been killing myself telling you."

"Give me some wine!"

"Bravo! let's drink! This champagne is delicious, and I know what I'm talking about."

"Yes, I will think no more of her, I will forget everything, I will love some other woman."

"Pardieu! that's the true way! In love especially, I believe in homœopathy."

Gustave swallowed his glass of wine at a draught, then ate a few mouthfuls with a sort of avidity; but he soon pushed his plate away, and let his head fall on his breast, muttering:

"Oh! no, I shall never love another woman; I know well enough that it would be impossible."

"The deuce! here he is in another paroxysm of his passion! We shall have some difficulty in curing the dear boy; but we will succeed, even though that should necessitate our not leaving him for a second for ten years to come! Be yourself, Gustave, and finish your story, which, I presume, must be drawing near its end, and which interests me in the highest degree."

"Yes, yes; you are right!—I was saying that one morning, having gone to Monsieur Gerbault's house, I found Mademoiselle Adolphine alone. She greeted me with such a sorrowful air that I could not refrain from asking her what caused her sadness, and she replied: 'I suffer for your sake, I am grieved for you; for I know how dearly you love my sister, and I foresee how you will suffer when you learn that she is going to be married, and not to you.'

"'Great heaven!' I cried; 'can it be possible? Fanny, false to me! Fanny, give herself to another!'

"'Yes,' said Adolphine. 'It seems to me that it is especially cruel to let you hope on, when her marriage to Monsieur Auguste Monléard was decided on a fortnight ago.'

"'She is going to marry Monsieur Monléard!' I cried; 'she throws me over for that man! And she smiled at me only yesterday when I swore to love her all my life!'

"'That's the reason I determined to tell you all,' said Adolphine. 'I did not choose that you should be deceived any longer.'

"I need not tell you what a state of despair I was in. Adolphine tried in vain to comfort me; I could not believe in Fanny's treachery, and I insisted upon seeing her, and learning from her own lips that she preferred my rival to me.

"The next day, I found her alone. Can you believe that she greeted me with the same tranquillity, the same smile, as usual? So much so, that I cried: 'It isn't true, is it, Fanny, that you are going to marry another man?'—Thereupon, with a little pout to which she tried to give a fitting touch of melancholy, she replied: 'Yes, Gustave; it is true. Mon Dieu! you mustn't be angry with me. At all events, it will do no good, my friend; I have reflected. We haven't enough money to marry; we should have had to lead the sort of life in which one is always forced to count the cost before indulging in any pleasure, to see if it is compatible with one's means; and, frankly, it is not amusing to figure up whether one can afford to enjoy one's self a little, to buy a hat or a jewel which takes one's fancy. So I concluded that it was more sensible to marry Monsieur Monléard, who has a handsome fortune, and I have accepted his hand. But it seems to me that you shouldn't bear me a grudge, because I have acted like a sensible woman, and we can still remain friends.'

"'I, your friend!' I exclaimed, bursting into tears; 'when you give yourself to another, when you make me miserable for life!'

"I don't know what reply she made; but somebody came to tell her that the materials for her wedding gown had arrived, and she hurried away. Her calmness, her indifference, exasperated me. When I was alone, all sorts of incoherent ideas assailed me, but I know that I was determined to die. I was about to leave the house, fully resolved not to survive Fanny's treachery, when suddenly I felt a caressing hand on my arm, while a sweet voice said to me in an imploring tone: 'Be a man, Gustave, be brave; resolve to endure this misfortune, which seems to break your heart to-day. Time will allay your suffering—you will love another woman, who will love you in return, who will understand your heart; and later you will be happy—much happier, perhaps, than she, who thinks of nothing but money! But, I entreat you, promise me that you will live!'

"It was Adolphine who spoke to me thus. Her tears were flowing freely. When I found that my grief was shared, I felt a little relieved, for unhappiness makes a man selfish, and, when we are unhappy, it seems to us that other people ought to suffer as we do. I promised Fanny's sister to renounce my thoughts of death, and I left that house, to which I shall never return!"

"I drink to good little Adolphine's health! For my part, I love that feeling heart—I shall never forget her. And our dear uncle, what said he when he learned the result of your love affair?"

"My uncle? Oh! he doesn't believe in love, not he!"

"He was quite right not to believe in your Mademoiselle Fanny's."

"He has no confidence in women."

"He has probably made a study of them."

"In fact, when I told him that Fanny was to marry another, he had the heartlessness to retort that that was lucky for me."

"Frankly, I agree with him; for, after all, my boy as the damsel didn't love you——"

"Why, yes, she did love me, before she knew this Monléard."

"She gave you the preference when there was nobody else."

"He turned her head by his magnificence, his presents."

"It is much better for you that it happened before your marriage rather than after.—Here's to your health! Ah! here's the Périgord macaroni—with truffles on top—that's the checker! Do you know this way of preparing macaroni?"

"It seems that he hastened the ceremony after our last interview; for that was only twelve days ago, and to-day I learned that the wedding was to take place at Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, to be followed by a banquet and ball here."

"Yes, and then you lost your head! You said to yourself: 'I will be there, I want to see what sort of a face the faithless creature will make when she sees me.'"

"True, monsieur, true. But they must have misinformed me as to the hour of the ceremony, for when I reached the church it was all over—they had gone."

"So much the better! that saved you one stab."

"Then I started off like a madman and ran all the way here, saying to myself: 'I simply must see her!'—And you know the rest, monsieur."

"I do, indeed; and if I hadn't been here, God knows what would have happened! But I'm a lucky dog; I almost always turn up when I'm wanted. Let us water the macaroni! I defy all the wedding parties in the place to dine better than me!"

XIII
A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD DINED WELL

Cherami had reached the dessert stage; he had amply repaired the ravages wrought in his stomach by the privation of the previous day, and he had watered his food so copiously with madeira, bordeaux, and champagne, that his face had become very red, his eyes very small, and his tongue very thick, which fact did not prevent his making constant use of it.

Gustave had drunk only two glasses of champagne; but, as he had eaten nothing at all, that had made him slightly tipsy, and he was beginning anew his trips from the dining-room to the corridor, when the waiter who served them hurried up to him, saying:

"The ladies are leaving the table, monsieur; I believe they are going to dress for the ball, for some of them have already put on their hats."

"Hurry back, then; take the bride's sister, Mademoiselle Adolphine, aside, and tell her that—Monsieur Gustave insists upon speaking to her—that I am waiting for her at the end of the corridor. Tell her that she simply must come; you understand, she must come! See, here are five francs more for you."

"Very good, monsieur. The bride's sister. But I don't know her, do I?"

"Mademoiselle Adolphine."

"Oh! yes, yes. I go, I fly, monsieur."

Gustave returned to the private room, where Cherami was occupied in admiring the bubbling of the champagne in his glass.

"She is coming! I am going to speak to her!" cried the young man.

"What! Do you mean that she's coming to join us here?"

"Yes. Oh! I am certain that she'll come. She would not like to drive me to do some crazy thing."

"All right! so much the better, sacrebleu! Let her come, and we'll tell her something. She's a sinner, a flirt."

"But it's Adolphine who's coming, not Fanny."

"Adolphine, the good little sister? Oh! that's a different matter. I will embrace her, I will even make love to her a bit, if she will permit me."

"They are going away, to dress for the ball; but first, I am determined—— Ah! someone is coming—a woman—it's she!"

It was, in fact, the young Adolphine, who ran along the corridor, trembling with distress and emotion, and entered the room, crying:

"What! Monsieur Gustave! you here! Why, in heaven's name, did you come?"

"Because I knew that she was here—and I hope to see her once more."

"Ah! mon Dieu! what madness!—And you, monsieur, you promised to take care of him."

"Why, mademoiselle, I am doing just that; I haven't lost sight of him a moment; and if I hadn't been here, to constantly restrain him, he would have gone twenty times to make trouble at your wedding feast, and to insult the husband."

"Oh! Gustave!"

"No, no, Adolphine; have no fear of that."

"Don't you trust what he says, mademoiselle; he's lost his head; luckily, I am here; I am calm and prudent."

"But why did you come here?"

"We came here to dine, mademoiselle, which we had a perfect right to do. For, after all, although a man may not belong to a wedding party, that need not prevent his dining, and dining very well too, I give you my word."

"But I can't stay any longer!—We are going away to dress; I am sure they are waiting for me. What do you want of me, Monsieur Gustave?"

"To beg you to give me an opportunity to speak to your sister once more."

"To Fanny? Why, it isn't possible! Besides, what would you say to her?"

"I will say good-bye to her forever; I will tell her that I hope that she will be happy—although she has wrecked my life."

"But how do you suppose that she can speak to you in secret? she is always surrounded; there's always somebody with us. What would people say? what would they think?"

"If you refuse, I will go and speak to her during the ball."

"Well—no—— Wait here, then; and, when we return from dressing, I will try—I will make her come through this corridor."

"Oh! thanks, thanks a thousand times! Ah! you are too kind!"

"I must go; adieu! But, in heaven's name, keep out of sight, don't show yourself!"

As she spoke, Adolphine made a sign of intelligence to Cherami, who imagined that the charming young woman was throwing him a kiss; but she disappeared just as he left the table to go to embrace her; and as the waiter entered the room at that moment, the ex-beau bestowed a resounding smack upon that functionary's cheek.

"Sacrebleu! what is this?" cried Cherami, roughly pushing back the waiter, who stood by the door in open-mouthed amazement at the caress he had received.—"Why the devil do you come up under my nose, waiter? Plague take the knave! I said to myself: 'Gad! this young lady uses very cheap soap!'"

"Pardon, monsieur; it isn't my fault; I was coming in, and you ran into my arms. I know well enough that it wasn't me you meant to embrace."

"It's lucky that you understand that."

"Waiter, what are the ladies doing now?"

"They are all going away, monsieur."

"And the men?"

"Some of them have gone, too; but many stayed, and are playing cards."

"And the Blanquette party, waiter—what are they doing now?"

"The Blanquette party are still at table, monsieur, and singing."

"Ah! I recognize them by that. They'll sit at table till ten o'clock, those people; the petty bourgeois sing at dessert, which is very bad form. However, I confess that I have sometimes gone so far as to hum a ditty myself; I have even composed one on occasion, one which Panard or Collé wouldn't have been ashamed to father. But I like a touch of smut myself; don't talk to me of your insipid ballads about roses and zephyrs and the springtime; no, nor your political ballads either; I abominate them; and yet, that's the kind of thing that makes great reputations; and I know men who would have been nothing more than common ballad-mongers, if they hadn't flattered parties and passions, and who have reached the very pinnacle of fame because they always end their couplets with the words fatherland and liberty. O Armand Gouffé! O Désaugiers! you didn't resort to such methods, so very little is heard of you. You are none the less the real French ballad-makers; your fruitful and vigorous muse has discovered innumerable varied subjects and described them in song, which is much more difficult than to keep harping on the same refrain."

"But, my dear Monsieur Arthur, now that I am waiting for the return of the bride, to whom I shall say adieu forever, if your affairs call you elsewhere, do not hesitate to go. Leave me; I have abused your good-nature too far already."

"I, leave you! No, indeed! What do you take me for?—What! after accepting your suggestion that we should dine together, leave you all of a sudden at dessert? Fie! Only a cad would do that; and, thank God! I know what good-breeding is. Tell me, do I annoy you? Is my presence distasteful to you?"

"Ah! far from it, my dear sir; you have shown an interest in my affairs, which I shall never forget."

"We were born to be friends, and we are; that is settled, your affairs are mine, what concerns you concerns me. Wherever there is danger for you, it is my duty to look after you; and, you understand, if, while you are talking with the bride, her new husband should happen to come prowling about here, I will just step in front of him and say: 'I am very sorry, my boy, but you can't pass!'"

"Oh! a thousand thanks for your devotion to me! Waiter! waiter! our bill!"

"Here it is, monsieur."

"You pay for the dinner; that's all right; but as we are to stay here some little time perhaps, we must have something to keep us busy."

"Order whatever you want."

"Waiter, make us a nice little rum punch; it's excellent for the digestion; the English eat a great deal, but they drink punch at dessert, and they're all right. Would you like to play cards, to kill time?"

"Thanks, it would be impossible for me to put my mind on the game."

"I don't insist. I am rather fond of cards, but I don't carry that passion to excess. Pardieu! I don't say that I may not take a hand by and by at the Blanquette function. Did I tell you that I knew them? They're linen-drapers; that sort of people play rather high; but that doesn't frighten me. Ah! here's our punch! I divine it by the odor; the table is excellent at this house."

Cherami lost no time in partaking of the punch. Gustave refused it at first, but finally consented to take a glass.

The night had come; the lights were lighted on all sides. With the darkness, the unhappy lover's thoughts became more gloomy, his suffering more intense; he buried his face in his hands, muttering:

"It's all over! O Fanny! Fanny! you will belong to another! Ah! I shall die of my grief!"

"Sapristi!" said Cherami to himself, swallowing several glasses of punch in rapid succession; "this youngster is very lachrymose; he isn't lively in his cups. With me, it's different; I feel in the mood to dance at all the wedding parties, and to play cards too—only I shall have to borrow a few napoleons from my new friend, in order to be able to tempt fortune. I have an idea that I shall have a vein of luck! I say, my dear friend, aren't we drinking any more?"

"Oh! no, thanks, monsieur!"

"Then I will drink for both of us. This punch is too sweet! Here, waiter, put in more rum, a lot of it!"

"But, monsieur, there's no more punch in the bowl."

"Well! then make another bowl, but make it stronger."

The other bowl was brought.

After drinking two more glasses, Cherami tried to rise, but was obliged to hold on to the table to keep from falling; however, although he felt that his legs were wavering under him, he determined to maintain his dignity, and did his best to keep his balance as he walked toward the door.

XIV
THE PUNCH PRODUCES ITS EFFECT

"They are a long while coming back, those ladies!" muttered Gustave, coming and going from the room to the corridor.

"Oh! my dear fellow, when a woman's at her toilet, one can never be sure how long a time she'll spend over it. One day, I remember, in the time of my splendor, I was waiting for my mistress, to go to the theatre, to see a new play. I believe it was at the Opéra-Comique—but, no matter. She had finally got dressed,—it had taken her a long while,—when, happening to look in the mirror, she cried: 'My wreath of blue-bottles is too far down on my forehead—I must change it—it's just a matter of putting in a pin.'—'All right,' said I; 'put in your pin. I'll wait'—My dear fellow, that pin, and all the others that she put in after it, took an hour and a half! and when we reached the theatre, the new play was over."

Observing that his young companion had fallen into abstraction once more, and was paying no heed to him, Cherami decided to leave the private room and try his fortunes in the corridor, saying to himself:

"I feel the need of a little fresh air; it's as hot as the tropics in these private dining-rooms. Ah! what do I see yonder? Ladies—many ladies. I must go and cast an eye in that direction. The fair sex attracts me—it's my magnet."

The ladies of the Monléard party were beginning to return, arrayed for the ball. To reach the room where they were to dance, they had to pass along the corridor to the main staircase. Cherami took his stand at the head of the staircase, and there ogled the ladies, bowed to them all as if he knew them, and spoke to each of them as she passed.

"Charming, on my word! A divine costume!—White shoulders that would drive Venus to despair!—Ah! how we are going to flirt!—A very pretty head-dress; bravo!—Ah! here's a mamma who proposes to play the coy maiden. Dear lady, you will find difficulty in getting partners, I warn you. There are pretty faces here that will monopolize all the cavaliers. Oho! what fine eyes! they are like carbuncles. Who will deign to accept my hand or my arm? I am at your service, fair ladies!"

But the ladies, instead of accepting the hand which my gentleman offered them, passed him without replying, or shrank from him, because there was in his whole aspect a seediness entirely out of harmony with their ball-dresses; moreover, he smelt so strongly of punch and liquors that it was impossible to pass him without receiving a whiff of the odor.

Several ladies put their handkerchiefs to their faces as they hurried by, and some exclaimed: "Why, who can that man be? Where did he come from? He is drunk!—Surely he is not one of Monsieur Monléard's wedding guests. What is he doing there, like a sentinel? He speaks to everybody, and with an astonishing lack of ceremony. He poisons the air with wine and liquor. Can't somebody send the horrible creature away?"

These complaints soon reached the ears of the gentlemen who had remained to play cards. Some of them rose and walked into the hall, saying:

"Parbleu! we will find out who this fellow is who takes the liberty of speaking to ladies whom he doesn't know!"

Cherami had just offered his hand to a pretty little woman, who had refused it and instantly put her handkerchief to her nose. This pantomime, having been frequently repeated in front of the ex-beau, began to offend him, and he suddenly exclaimed:

"Deuce take it! what's the matter with all these prudes, that they hide their faces with their handkerchiefs? Can it be because they think that I have any desire to kiss them! Ah! I've seen prettier women than you—who didn't run away from me, my princesses!"

"To whom are you speaking, monsieur? Is it these ladies to whom you dare to address such language?"

"Hallo! who's this? where did he come from? Ah! what a noble head!"

"It is for you, monsieur, to answer those questions. Off with you, at once, or I'll put you out-of-doors."

"Out-of-doors, eh? Understand that I dined here—with my friend Gustave—Gustave something or other—and that I have as much right as you to stay here—that I won't go away."

"I forbid you to speak to these ladies."

"Thanks! I have my cue."

The ladies interposed to prevent a dispute, and succeeded in taking their champions away with them, saying:

"You can see that the man's drunk. What satisfaction do you expect to obtain from a man who hasn't his senses? Leave him there, and pay no more attention to him."

The men yielded to this request, and they left Cherami standing there and entered the ballroom.

Meanwhile, the waiter who had served the dinner in the private room ran up to Cherami.

"The gentleman who dined with you is going away; someone has come for him."

"What! my friend Gustave going away? Why, it's impossible! He won't go without me; besides, he's waiting for the bride; we must have the bride; she's been promised to us."

"He's going, I tell you."

The ex-beau decided to return to the private room, and found at the door his young friend and a man of mature years, short of stature, but with a cold, stern face which imposed respect. They were on the point of leaving.

"Well, well! what does this mean?" cried Cherami. "What! my dear Gustave, going, and without me—your intimate friend, your Orestes, your Patroclus?"

"Who is this new friend of yours, whom I don't know, whom I have never seen with you?" the short man asked Gustave, whose arm he held fast.

"It's a gentleman who has been kind enough to take some interest in me, uncle," faltered Gustave;—"I was so unhappy—and to keep me company."

"And whose dinner you have paid for, I presume? Your friend did not spare himself."

"What do I hear? Monsieur is your uncle?"

"Yes, monsieur; I am Gustave's uncle."

"Then you are Monsieur Grandcourt?"

"Just so."

"Oh! Delighted to make the acquaintance of my friend's uncle."

"I am obliged to you, monsieur; but we are going."

"What! you are going? Pray, do you not know that your dear nephew desires to speak once more with the bride, the faithless Fanny?"

"Indeed, I do know it, and it was for the express purpose of preventing that interview, which might result in a scandalous scene, that I came here and that I am taking my nephew away."

"But her little sister, the charming Adolphine, would have obtained an interview for us in secret."

"You are mistaken, monsieur; for it was Mademoiselle Adolphine herself who sent word to me that my nephew was here, and begged me to exert my authority to take him away and prevent his seeing her sister; that young woman realized all the impropriety of the proposed interview."

"What! it was the little sister who sent word to you? Ah! the little mouse! These women are all leagued together to fool us."

"On this occasion, monsieur, Mademoiselle Adolphine showed as much good sense as prudence, and she deserves only praise from us. Come, Gustave, say adieu to monsieur, thank him for the service which he intended, I doubt not, to render you, and let's be off."

"So it's all over, uncle, is it? you drag me away without allowing me to see her once more?"

"Really, nephew, you disgust me with your love and your regrets for a woman who has treated you with contempt, played with you like a child. Be a man, for God's sake! Repay contempt with contempt, scorn with scorn! and blush to think that you placed your affections so ill. Let us go."

"One moment, dear uncle of my friend: I desire most earnestly to know you more intimately. Gustave will tell you that I am worthy of your friendship. I do not accompany you, because I am going to the Blanquette wedding feast, which is on the second floor. Give me your address, please; I will call and breakfast with you to-morrow."

"It is useless, monsieur; to-morrow, we shall be at Havre."

"At Havre? Very good! it's all the same to me; I will go there with you. Ah! my dear Gustave, do let go of the dear uncle's arm a moment; I have a word to say to you in private, just a word; but it's very important."

But, paying no further heed to Cherami, Monsieur Grandcourt led his nephew away at a rapid pace, and they left the restaurant while Gustave's friend was still talking to them in the corridor.

XV
THE ÉCARTÉ PLAYERS

When he finally discovered that he was alone, Cherami returned to the private dining-room, sat down at the table, looked into the bowl, where there was still some punch, and poured out a glass, saying to himself:

"After all, I shall have no difficulty in finding them again. The uncle doesn't seem quite so amiable as the nephew; there's a something stiff and cold in his face. He fell in here like a bombshell. It's a pity; I felt just in the mood to kidnap the bride before the noses of the Athenians and of all those hussies who hid their faces with their handkerchiefs. Suppose I go and clean out the whole crowd? No, they're not worth the trouble. I prefer to pay a visit to the Blanquette festivity; there I am known, they won't treat me as an intruder. Sapristi! what a pity that I hadn't the time to borrow a few napoleons from my new friend. He would have loaned them to me; there's no doubt about it. Ah! I waited too long; but I couldn't suspect that an uncle would arrive all of a sudden—just as they do in vaudevilles, to bring about an unexpected dénouement. Aha! what do I hear? Music, they're playing a quadrille. Gad! it seems to me that I could make a pretty figure at a little contra-dance. That music puts me right in the mood for it. O power of music! Emollit mores nec sint esse feros. I think I'll go and say that to the bucks who are dancing upstairs! They'd think I was asking them for a cigar.—Pretty music! Sapristi! it shall not be said that I remained alone in this room, like a bear in its cage, while everybody else in the place is enjoying himself. Here goes for a look in at the Blanquette function."

And Cherami jumped to his feet, put his hat on his head, took his little cane, and rushed from the room. When he was in the corridor, he lurched against the wall more than once; but, with the instinct of a man accustomed to frequent over-indulgence, he drew himself up and steadied himself on his legs.

"What does this mean?" he said.—"You stumble for a glass or two of punch? Come, come, Arthur, I shouldn't know you, my boy; you're not drunk, you can't be drunk."

Thereupon the mind steadied the body, and he walked to the stairway with a somewhat less uncertain step. There he could plainly hear the orchestra of the elegant Monléard ball. He paused a moment, saying to himself:

"Suppose I should enter abruptly, and make a scene with the perfidious Fanny, in behalf of my young friend Gustave—what a stunning coup! what an effect I would produce!—Yes, but those people don't know me; they don't know that I once had thirty-five thousand francs a year, and that I have been the most popular man in Paris. They would be quite capable of treating me as an intruder! I should talk back—and then, duels! Let's not end in sadness a day so well employed. Dies fasti, as the Romans used to say. It's surprising how the punch brings back my Latin! Let's go up a floor, and join the Blanquette wedding party; there, at all events, I know the bridegroom slightly, and the uncle very well. I owe him four or five hundred francs for cloth—an additional reason why he should receive me well; a man never closes his door to his debtors."

Having arrived on the second floor, Cherami heard the strains of another orchestra; he passed through a large room where he saw nothing but men's hats hanging on hooks, and immediately hung up his own and placed his cane beside it.

"I must show my breeding," he said to himself; "one doesn't appear at a wedding party as at a messroom. Ah! what do I see in that corner? a very fine yellow glove, on my word! Pardieu! it arrives most opportunely! It's for the left hand, but, no matter: I can keep the other in my pocket. It fits me, it really fits me beautifully! What a pity that the man who dropped it didn't drop the right-hand one too! No matter; this one gives a sort of dressed-up, coquettish air, which sets off the wearer. I will keep my right hand under the tail of my coat—nay, I will skilfully hold both tails in my hand, and people will think I'm in full dress. Forward, charge their guns!"

Cherami passed into a second room, which was occupied by card-players: there were two tables of whist and one of écarté. With the exception of two elderly women at one of the whist tables, there were only men in the room; and as they were all busily engaged in playing, or watching the play, nobody noticed the arrival of the party in plaid trousers.

Cherami smiled at everybody, although he saw no one whom he knew; there were very few persons about the whist tables—only one or two enthusiasts watching the games—so that one could easily approach them. It was not the same with the écarté table; there was a crowd of young men about it, and it was very difficult to see their hands.

Cherami walked about for some minutes, daintily scratching the end of his nose with his gloved hand, and holding the other behind his back, under the skirt of his coat. Suddenly one of the players cried:

"Twenty francs lacking! Come, gentlemen; who'll make it good?"

"Not I, by a long shot!" said a young man, turning toward Cherami; "they're having extraordinary luck! They have passed six times over there! But I know Minoret; he's a lucky dog! When he sets about it, he's quite capable of passing twenty times in succession."

"Still twenty francs lacking," the same voice repeated; "who makes it good?"

"I," cried Cherami, in a loud voice. "I make it good; I trust to Monsieur Minoret's luck."

This remark attracted general attention to Cherami. The young men scrutinized him, then smiled, and said to one another:

"Who the deuce is this fellow?"

"What an extraordinary figure!"

"And his dress is even more extraordinary. Who ever heard of going to a wedding in plaid trousers and waistcoat!"

"And they're far from new."

"He wasn't at the supper, I'm sure."

"No. I would like right well to know who he is. He seems to know Minoret."

A moment later, the player addressed as Minoret spoke again:

"Well! who is it who makes good the twenty francs? Why doesn't he put up the money?"

"I am the man, monsieur, who makes it good," replied Cherami, still louder than before; "and, sapristi! when I say that I make it good, it seems to me that it's the same thing as if I had put up the money! But perhaps you'll give me time to find my purse, which has slipped into the lining of my waistcoat."

The tone in which Cherami spoke imposed silence upon all those who surrounded the écarté table. It rarely happens that one cannot, by talking loud enough, produce that effect on the multitude; and if the victory on the battlefield almost always remains with the greatest numbers, so in a discussion it almost always remains with the loudest voices.

So the card-players concluded to deal the cards and go on with the game. Meanwhile, Cherami went through a very curious pantomime. Having decided to withdraw his right hand from behind his back, he plunged it into one pocket of his waistcoat, then into the other, then into his trousers-pockets, pretending to be in search of something which he was very sure of not finding; but he went about it with a zeal which deceived the most incredulous, interspersing his investigations with such ejaculations as:

"Where the devil have I put my purse! It's inconceivable—as soon as you begin to look for a thing, you can't remember what you did with it! I certainly had it just now when I paid my cabman. Can I have dropped it beside my pocket, thinking that I put it inside? Let's try this side; it seems to me that I feel something. Yes—I have it at last. Oh! the devil! it isn't my purse, it's my cigar-case!—I believe I haven't looked in this pocket."

But, as our bettor hoped, the game came to an end before he had finished his search; and ere long these words reached his ears, and filled his heart with joy:

"I was sure of it; Minoret has won again!"

Cherami instantly rushed to the table, extended his left hand, closed, to the player on whom he had bet, and said:

"I have just found my purse: here's the twenty francs I bet on you, monsieur."

"You don't need to put up the money, monsieur, as we have won," replied Minoret; "on the contrary, here's twenty francs that belongs to you."

As he spoke, the player handed Cherami a twenty-franc piece; but in order to take it, he would have had to open the hand which he held tightly closed, and then they would have seen that he had nothing in it. Like the shrewd man he was, he realized the peril of his position, and boldly solved the difficulty by replying in his turn:

"Very good, monsieur; keep the twenty francs; I will bet on you again."

To those who consider that it was very imprudent for a man who had not a sou, to risk upon one deal the twenty francs he had just won, we reply that, as a general rule, those who are most in need of money play for the highest stakes. Moreover, in this instance, Cherami was excused by the embarrassing position in which he was placed.

Monsieur Minoret's luck did not change; he won six times more, and was not beaten until the seventh; and Cherami, who had continued to bet on the same side, found himself in possession of one hundred and twenty francs when he left the table, at which he had taken his place without a sou. There was a fitting occasion to speak Latin; and our gambler, after the sacramental "I have my cue," did not fail to add: "Audaces fortuna juvat!" Never was maxim more fittingly applied; indeed, one might perhaps consider that on this occasion Cherami was something more than audacious.

"I must confess that I did well to bet!" said Cherami to himself, jingling in his pockets the gold pieces he had won. "Pardieu! I am tempted to go and buy a right-hand glove. Bah! what's the use? I may well have lost the other. The first owner of this one must find himself in the same predicament. Let's go to the ballroom; I feel in the mood for a polka, and if there's any susceptible female there, I will fascinate her by my glances."

XVI
THE BLANQUETTE WEDDING BALL

The ballroom was long and narrow; a waltz was in progress at the moment selected by Cherami to make his appearance. He began by running into a couple who were waltzing in two-time, which means that they were out of step, as a waltz is always in three-time. Surely they who invented that style of dancing could not have had a musical ear. Now, waltzers in two-time always move very rapidly; indeed, that is the main purpose of the innovation. Cherami, colliding suddenly with the couple as they passed, stepped back and came in contact with some waltzers in three-time, who were abandoning themselves voluptuously to the charms of the waltz; the lady, letting her head hang languidly on one side, and keeping her eyes half-closed to avoid being dizzy; her partner, holding himself firm on his legs, pressing his partner's waist with an arm of iron, and gazing down at her with eyes that flashed fire.

Being abruptly aroused from their ecstasy by a person who bumped against them and threw them out of step, they cried:

"Pray be careful! Mon Dieu! how awkward some people are!"

"What's that! be careful yourselves!" retorted the man with one glove. "What the devil! you waltzed into my back."

"But you should get out of the way, monsieur! The idea of standing in front of people who are waltzing!"

"Ah! monsieur, you have torn my dress, and you trod on my foot!"

"But who is this shabbily dressed individual, who scratches his nose with a bright yellow glove, and runs into everybody? Do you know him?"

"No."

"Nor I."

"Wait; Minoret must know him; he bet on Minoret's hand."

And a young man went up to Minoret, who had also entered the ballroom, and said to him:

"My dear Minoret, tell me who that extraordinary person in the Scotch trousers is, who bet twenty francs on you just now?"

"Who? that tall man with the red face, holding his left hand in the air?"

"Yes."

"I don't know him at all."

"But he called you by name when he bet."

"I don't know whether he knows me, or not, but I don't know him."

"That's strange. He acts as if he were a little tipsy. We must find out who he is. Ah! there's Armand, one of the groomsmen. I say, Armand, come here a moment; tell us who that man is, whose costume is so unconventional for a wedding party?"

"The gentleman in a frock-coat, who runs into everybody?"

"The same."

"I have just asked the bride, and she doesn't know him either."

"And the groom?"

"He is dancing. But there's his uncle, Monsieur Blanquette; I'll go and ask him about the fellow; and if nobody knows him, we'll soon show him the door, I promise you."

But before the groomsman could reach the bridegroom's uncle, Cherami, who had spied the linen-draper, hastened to meet him, and said, tapping him on the stomach:

"Here I am, my dear friend! You didn't ask me to your party, but I said to myself: 'I'll go all the same, because, with old acquaintances, one shouldn't take offence at trifles.'—Then what did I do?—I dined here, in a private room on the first floor, and dined magnificently, too, I flatter myself! and then I came up to say bonsoir to you, and to salute the bride—and to dance with anybody, I don't care who! I'm an obliging person, you see.—So there you are, my dear Papa Blanquette. Old friends are always on hand, as the song says."

Monsieur Blanquette was surprised beyond words to find himself confronted by the gentleman whom he had met in the afternoon, when he alighted from his carriage. He did not seem overjoyed to see him at the ball; but as he did not desire his nephew's wedding party to be disturbed by any unpleasant scene, he strove to conceal his annoyance, and rejoined:

"Faith, Monsieur Cherami, I didn't expect to see you again! So you dined at this restaurant, did you?"

"Yes, my estimable friend; and dined deliciously, too, I beg you to believe."

"So I perceive!"

"What! so you perceive! and by what do you perceive it, I pray to know?"

"Why, because you seem to be much inclined—to laugh."

"I am always cheerful when I am among my friends. That's my nature, you know. Pray present me to the bride."

"But, excuse me—it seems to me that you are hardly in ball dress—and the ladies are rather particular about that."

"If you'd invited me, I'd have come in full dress; you didn't invite me, so I came as a neighbor. All is for the best, as Doctor Pangloss says. Present me to your niece."

"Later; they are going to dance now; you see they are forming a quadrille. Let us go into another room."

"They are going to dance, eh? Then I'll not go, deuce take me! for I can dance, you know. I used to be one of the best of La Chaumière's pupils, and she was a pupil of Chicard. People fought for places to see me dance the Tulipe Orageuse. I propose to show you that I haven't forgotten it all."

Thereupon the ex-beau, leaving Monsieur Blanquette, walked toward the benches on which the ladies were seated, and offered his gloved hand to one of the younger ones, saying:

"Will you do me the honor, lovely coryphée, to accept my hand for this contra-dance?"

"I am engaged, monsieur."

Cherami thereupon addressed the same request to one after another, varying his phrase slightly; but there was no variation in the replies; it was always the same formula:

"I am engaged."

For no young woman, married or unmarried, cared to dance with a person so red of face, so shabbily dressed, smelling so strongly of rum, and with his right hand always behind his back.

"Sapristi! it seems that all the ladies have been engaged beforehand!" cried Cherami, glaring at the benches in turn; "I am refused all along the line!"

But at every ball there is sure to be some elderly woman, ugly, dowdily dressed, who still has the assurance to take her place among the dancers. Our Arthur finally espied a lady of that type, sitting in a corner; on her head was a sort of turban, laden with an appalling mass of flowers, feathers, and lace.

"I shall be unlucky indeed, if this creature is engaged!" said Cherami to himself, boldly directing his steps toward the turbaned dame.

He had not delivered half of his invitation, when she rose as if impelled by a spring, and seized his gloved hand, saying:

"With pleasure; yes, monsieur; I accept. Oh! I will dance as long as you please."

"In that case, fair lady, let us take our places."

Almost all the sets were full. But Cherami was not to be denied; he planted himself in front of a short youth and his partner; and when the youth remonstrated: "But, monsieur, this place is taken, we were here before you," he replied, in a supercilious tone: "I don't know whether you were before us, my good man; but I do know that I have the honor to be here now with madame, and that I will not stir except at the point of the bayonet!"

The young man dared not make any further resistance; moreover, the guests were whispering to one another on all sides:

"That original is dancing with Aunt Merlin!"

"What! Aunt Merlin dancing?"

"Yes, with the man in Scotch trousers. This is going to be great fun!"

And all those who were not dancing ran to watch the set in which Cherami and Aunt Merlin were to figure.

"Sapristi! I have lost one of my gloves!" cried Arthur, making a pretence of feeling in his pocket, and looking on the floor. "Will you pardon me, fair lady, for dancing with a single glove?"

"Oh! certainly, monsieur," replied the lady with the turban, in a simpering tone; "you are forgiven; indeed, the same thing happened to Monsieur Courbichon; when he arrived here for the ball, he discovered that he had lost one of his gloves—only it was the left one, in his case."

"Ah! that's very amusing! Then we have the pair between us! I shall laugh a long while over that. It's our turn, fair lady."

The first figure passed off quietly enough, as the English chain and the cat's tail gave Cherami no chance to display his talent; but in the second, in the avant-deux, he began to take steps and attitudes of the cancan in its purest and most unblushing form. The men laughed till they cried, and the women as well, murmuring:

"Why, this is frightful! where does that fellow think he is, for heaven's sake?"

The most amusing feature of the episode was that Cherami's partner, spurred on by the strange evolutions and the eccentric steps of her cavalier, thought that she ought to do as he did, and began to twist and turn, and throw her legs to right and left, with an ardor which kept all the flowers on her turban in commotion.

The laughter became more uproarious.

"I venture to believe that we are producing some effect," said Cherami to his partner; "but I am not surprised; whenever I dance, the people crowd to watch me."

Meanwhile, from one end of the room to the other, the guests were saying:

"The man in the plaid trousers is dancing the cancan with Aunt Merlin; it's most amusing!"

Some of the couples ceased dancing, in order to watch the performance of Aunt Merlin and her partner. The uproar soon reached the ears of Monsieur Blanquette, the uncle; the bride's mother, a most respectable woman, said to him:

"I beg you, Monsieur Blanquette, go and tell my sister not to dance the cancan. Everybody here is laughing at her, and she doesn't notice it. Oh! what a mistake you made in inviting that tall man with the red face!"

"Mon Dieu! madame, I assure you that I didn't invite him. He's a man who owes me money—whom I knew when he was rich and well-dressed.—He has ruined himself completely. He caught sight of me this morning, when we were getting out of the carriages; and to-night he takes the liberty of coming to our ball. I didn't dare tell him to leave—because, you understand, that's an embarrassing thing to do. But if he presumes to dance indecently—why, then I shan't hesitate."

Monsieur Blanquette walked toward the quadrille which caused such a prodigious sensation. Cherami was in the act of executing the chaloupe with his partner, who continued to second him as best she could. The bridegroom's uncle sidled up behind her, and said in an undertone:

"Don't dance like that, Madame Merlin, I beg you; that's the way they dance at low dance-halls. Decent people don't make such exhibitions of themselves in a salon."

"It seems to me that I am dancing very well, monsieur," replied Aunt Merlin, sourly; "and the way the people crowd to watch us proves it."

"I assure you, Madame Merlin, that it isn't proper, and your sister is much annoyed."

"My sister's annoyed because she's got beyond dancing. Let her leave me alone! I propose to dance, I tell you!"

"What is it, my nymph, eh?" cried Cherami; "what did old Père Blanquette say to you?"

"He declares that our dance isn't proper."

"Ah! that's very fine! What box has he just come out of, to be shocked at our dance? Doesn't he go to the play, I wonder? Hasn't he ever seen the Spanish dancers? They've been at almost all the theatres. Ah! bigre! if he'd seen those females do their fandangos, their iotas, and their boleros, and indulge in all sorts of antics, showing their legs, yes, and their garters too! that's much worse than the cancan. But that doesn't prevent those Spaniards from drawing the crowd, wherever they are. And you don't like it, because I dance the cancan, and yet you rush to see licentious dances performed by women whose costumes add to the effect of their dancing! Sapristi! for God's sake, try to make up your mind what you want!—Our turn, my Terpsichore; attention! this is the pastourelle, and I am saving a little surprise for you in the cavalier seul."

Aunt Merlin darted off like an arrow, paying no heed to the remonstrances of Père Blanquette, who heaved sigh upon sigh when he saw how easy it is to lead a woman on to make a fool of herself, even when her age should make her sensible. But the time came for Cherami to perform the cavalier seul; excited by all that he had drunk, and recalling the feats of his younger days, he performed the evolution called the araignée, which consists in throwing yourself flat on your stomach in front of the opposite couple. This bit of gymnastics was greeted with frantic laughter; and Aunt Merlin, turning to Papa Blanquette, cried:

"What do you say to that? Could you do as much?"

"No, certainly not, madame; and I wouldn't try," retorted the uncle; "but I consider it very presumptuous. Your partner must have the devil in him, to do such crazy things!"

Aunt Merlin had ceased to listen; the last figure had arrived, that in which the galop is the leading feature; and said Cherami, as he put his arm about her waist:

"We'll just show the others how to galop. Fichtre! they'd better look out for themselves. They ran into me when they were waltzing, but we'll pay them back in their own coin."

With that, he started off with his partner, whirling her about as they danced. Beau Arthur had been one of the most notable performers in the formidable galops which are a feature of the masked balls at the Opéra. The punch renewed the vigor of his youth. Throwing himself headlong into the midst of the assemblage, dancers and onlookers, he rushed through the room like a whirlwind or an avalanche, hurling this one aside, colliding with that one, and sowing confusion everywhere. In vain did they shout to him:

"Stop, monsieur; stop at once! you're throwing the ladies down!"

Cherami kept on; not until Aunt Merlin's turban fell, would he consent to deposit her upon a bench, with her eyes starting from her head. But at that moment several gentlemen, boiling over with wrath, surrounded the terrible galoper.

"Monsieur, you threw my partner down!"

"Monsieur, you have crushed my daughter's nose!"

"Monsieur, you upset my wife; when she fell, her elastic skirt sprang up over her head, so that everybody could see—what I alone have the right to see!"

"Monsieur, you must give me satisfaction!"

"Monsieur, you haven't seen the end of this!"

While he was thus apostrophized on all sides, Cherami calmly wiped the perspiration from his face, and said:

"Sapristi! what's the matter with them all? They are delightful!—I consider that you're a delightful lot! You ought to have got out of the way; that's what I did, when you ran into me while you were waltzing just now. Is it my fault, if you don't know how to keep on your legs? What a terrible thing, if your estimable daughter's nose is a little bruised; and if your wife, monsieur, did show some admirable things! It seems to me that you ought to be flattered by the accident, for everybody must envy your good fortune."

These retorts were far from appeasing the wrath of the husbands, brothers, and fathers who had been maltreated in the persons of the objects of their affections. But Uncle Blanquette forced his way through the crowd, and said to him who had caused all the confusion, assuming a tone which he strove to make dignified:

"Monsieur, you have caused a grave perturbation at my nephew's wedding party——"

"Ha! ha! perturbation is a pretty word; I must remember it. Never mind; proceed, Papa Blanquette."

"People in our society do not indulge in such improper dances as those you have performed, monsieur."

"But, if I remember right, Aunt Merlin seemed to enjoy that dance pretty well."

"I didn't invite you to our ball, monsieur; so I consider it much too—much too——"

"Presumptuous!—you can't find the word, but that's it, I fancy; eh?"

"Yes, monsieur; too presumptuous, to appear where you're not invited, and especially in a costume so negligée as yours. You have thrown down enough persons; we don't care to have any more of it, and I beg you to go."

"Ah! that's your idea of politeness, is it? Very good! bonsoir! I will go! Your party isn't so very fine, after all; I haven't seen a single glass of punch. And you fancy that you do things in style, do you? No, no! you're a long way behind the times!"

"Be good enough to remember also, monsieur, that you owe me four hundred and ninety-five francs; and, if you don't quit, I will take harsh measures——"

"Bravo! I expected that—that's the bouquet! The idea of talking about your account at a ball! Look you, old Blanquette: you make me sick! Adieu, Rome, I go!—Mesdames, I lay my homage at your feet. I am sorry to have jostled you a little; but, on my word of honor, it was the fault of your partners; they didn't know how to hold you."

This fresh insult to the male portion of the guests renewed their wrath, and they threatened to attack Cherami. He removed his yellow glove and threw it at their feet, saying:

"Here, this is all I can do for you! I expect you all to-morrow morning. My friend Blanquette [C] of veal will give you my address. Bring pistols, sabres, swords, what you please. I shall have nothing but a rabbit's tail, understand, and with that rabbit's tail I defy you all!"

This heroic challenge seemed to calm the wrath of his adversaries to some extent. But, while they were staring at one another, a little, bald man darted forward and picked up the glove.

"That's my glove," he cried; "I recognize it; it's the left-hand glove that I lost; it has been mended on the thumb; this is the very one!"

Cherami did not hear Monsieur Courbichon. He left the ballroom, passed rapidly through the cardroom, and, taking a hat from a nail and a cane from a corner, left the last of the rooms and descended the stairs, saying to himself:

"I snap my fingers at them. I'm not sorry I went to that party. I have my cue!"

And Cherami patted the pocket in which were the gold pieces he had won at écarté.

At the foot of the staircase, he saw several ladies standing, waiting for their carriages; they were guests of the party on the first floor, just leaving the ball. In a moment, another young couple appeared, and one of the ladies said to another:

"What does this mean? the bride going away already?"

"Yes, I believe she doesn't feel very well."

"Aha! that's the bride, who goes so early!" cried Cherami, putting his head forward. "Yes! it's she! it's the faithless Fanny! I recognize her."

These words were hardly out of his mouth, when the husband, who had his wife on his arm, left her abruptly, looked about, and rushed up to Cherami, to whom he said in a voice that trembled with emotion:

"Was it you who just spoke, monsieur?"

"What's that! Suppose it was? Well, yes, I did speak. Do you mean to say that it isn't my right?"

"Was it you who said: 'It's the faithless Fanny'?"

"Yes, pardieu! it was. Oh! I never deny my words."

"This is neither the time nor the place for an explanation, monsieur; but I will call on you to-morrow, and, if you're not a coward, you will give me satisfaction."

"I, a coward! Arthur Cherami, a coward! Well, well! that's a good one! And I have just challenged the whole Blanquette wedding party! I am always ready to fight with whatever anyone chooses—from a pin to a cannon, I'm your man!"

"We will see about that to-morrow. Your address?"

"There it is. I always carry a card about me with a view to affairs of this sort."

Monléard took the soiled yellow card which Cherami drew from his pocket, and hastened after his wife, who was already in the carriage. This little scene had taken place so rapidly that the persons who were standing had been able to catch only a few words.

The carriage which contained the newly married pair drove away. Cherami looked about for a cab, and having finally found one, jumped in, and called out to the driver:

"Rue de l'Orillon, Barrière de Belleville. I will tell you when we reach my hôtel."—Then he stretched himself out comfortably on the back seat, with his feet on the other, murmuring: "The day has been complete. An excellent dinner, punch, cards, a ball, and a duel! And this morning I hadn't the wherewithal to buy a small loaf! In my place, a fool would have jumped into the water. But, with clever people, there is always some resource."

XVII
FURNISHED LODGINGS ON RUE DE L'ORILLON

Rue de l'Orillon, which is outside the barrier, near the Belleville theatre, bears not the slightest resemblance to Rue de Rivoli, or to Rue de la Paix. There is much mud there at almost all seasons, and there are very few shops of the Magasin du Prophète variety; indeed, I think that I can safely say that there are none.

It was in a wretched furnished lodging on this street outside the walls that the ci-devant Beau Arthur, who had once dwelt in the fashionable precincts of the Champs-Élysées and the Chaussée d'Antin, had been compelled to take up his abode. He did not often pay his rent; however, on the day when he received his quarterly stipend, he sometimes persuaded himself to give two or three five-franc pieces to his landlady, and she waited patiently for her arrears, because she was proud to furnish lodgings to a man who had once had thirty-five thousand francs a year, and who still retained a trace of his former social position in his manners and his language.

The room occupied by Cherami was not furnished like the apartments of the Hôtel du Louvre. A blue wallpaper, at thirteen sous a roll, took the place of hangings; but this paper, already old, was torn in several places, and the breaches were concealed by scraps of paper of a different design, and, in many instances, of a different color, which gave to the room a sort of Harlequin aspect which was not altogether disagreeable—especially to those persons who like that costume. Now, Harlequins are very popular in Rue de l'Orillon.

A miserable cot-bed, surmounted by a rod which had never been gilded, and over which was thrown a curtain of yellow cloth much too narrow to surround the bed, stood opposite the window. At the foot of the bed was a screen four feet high, which was supposed to be a protection against the wind that came in under the ill-fitted door. A Louis XVI commode, an old Louis XV armchair, and a desk which claimed to be Louis XIII, with a few common chairs, were all the furniture that the apartment contained. On the mantel were two kitchen candlesticks, a small box of matches, and several cigar-butts, but not a single pipe: Arthur would have deemed himself a dishonored man if he had put a pipe to his lips.

It was noon, and Cherami lay on his bed, having just waked up. He stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes, and, glancing at the window, said to himself:

"On my word, I believe I've had quite a nap! Yes, if I can judge by the sun, which is shining in at my window, the morning must be well advanced. It is often unpleasant not to have a watch; but, at all events, in a furnished lodging-house there should be a clock on each mantel. That villainous Madame Louchard, my landlady, promises me every month that indispensable complement of my furniture, and I am like Sister Anne, I see nothing coming. Par la sambleu! as they say in Marivaux's plays, the rest has done me good, for yesterday was a tiresome day! But it seems to me that I had at least a dozen duels on hand for this morning; the deuce! and I don't know what time it is."

Thereupon Cherami began to knock loudly on the thin partition beside his bed, shouting at the top of his voice:

"Madame Louchard! I say there! Goddess of Cythera! Landlady of the Loves! Venus of La Courtille! hasten hither, I beseech thee.—Come, lady fair; I await thee! I await thee!—Damnation! start your boots, will you!"

After some five minutes, heavy footsteps were heard in the corridor, and a tall woman, thin as a lath, whose flat hips indicated a most profound contempt for every sort of hoop-skirt, entered the room occupied by Cherami. This woman had a huge nose, huge mouth, huge teeth, huge ears, and feet and hands to correspond. A child who had heard the tale of Little Red Riding Hood would inevitably have been afraid of her, mistaking her for the wolf disguised as the grandmother.

To complete the portrait, we may add that Madame Louchard had a yellow complexion, bleared eyes, and a nose always smeared with snuff; that her costume consisted of a long dressing-gown, shaped like an umbrella case (a reminder of the style in vogue under the Directory); and, finally, that her head-dress was a white cap, around which was tied a colored cotton handkerchief.

"Well! what's the matter? What are you shouting and hammering for? Couldn't you get up, Monsieur Lazy-bones? I should think it had been light long enough."

Such was this lady's way of bidding her tenant good-morning.

"You are right as to that point, Queen of Cythera," replied Cherami, half rising.

"God forgive me! I believe he intends to get up before me! Was that why you called me—to let me see that sight? That strikes me as a strange kind of joke!"

"Nay, nay, virtuous Louchard; I will not rise in your presence. I know the rigidity of your morals, and I respect them! I know that with you Richelieu and Buckingham would have wasted their time."

"I don't know those gentlemen, but it would be just the same with them as with others! I have told you a hundred times that, since my husband's death, the late Louchard, men are nothing to me!"

"It would seem that the late Louchard was a phœnix, a jewel, the very pearl of husbands?"

"On the contrary, he had a lot of hidden drawbacks, and he was always drunk. That's what made me take a dislike to your sex, in the matter of love."

"Very good! I agree with you, on my honor. I think you did well to adopt that course."

"Why?"

"Because it makes you resemble Dido. But let us change the subject; tell me quickly what time it is."

"Dame! it's a good half-hour—yes, at least half an hour—since I heard the clock strike twelve."

"Then say at once that it's half-past twelve. Bigre! I have been lazy, and no mistake; but when I came in last night, it was two o'clock in the morning."

"No earlier; and you woke me up, too; you always make such a noise on the stairs!"

"At all events, I didn't wake your concierge, as you haven't one."

"What's the good of a concierge?—Everybody knows the secret of the passageway, and they can come in when they choose."

"And by feeling their way, which is often very imprudent."

"But I believe you rode home last night. Do the omnibuses run as late as that nowadays?"

"Omnibuses! Understand, Widow Louchard, that when I come home after midnight, I always come in a coupé or a cab."

"Peste! so the funds have gone up, have they? You'd better give me something on account."

"Don't bother me! I gave you ten francs."

"That was two months ago."

"That's not the question. Has anybody called to see me this morning?"

"No, not a cat."

"Not a cat! Oh! the cowards!"

"Why do you say that cats are cowards? Mine would fight a bulldog."

"I'm not talking about your cat, Widow Louchard; but about a lot of braggarts, all of whom challenged me yesterday, and who don't dare to call on me to-day."

"Do you mean that you wanted to fight again, pray? Good God! is it a disease with you? It isn't so very long since you were cured of that bullet in your side."

"Bah! a trifle, a scratch. I am not quarrelsome; but when a man seems to look askance at me, that irritates me. After all, I am not particular about seeing those walking rushlights of the Blanquette wedding party. But there was another man; if he doesn't come, I shall be surprised. However, it's not too late yet; he was only married yesterday, and a man doesn't get up very early on the day after his wedding."

"What! you expect to fight with someone who was married yesterday?"

"Why not? We marry, we fight, we kill—or are killed! Such is life, lovely Artemisia!"

"What makes you call me Artemisia? that isn't my name."

"Because she was a widow who profoundly regretted her husband."

"But I have never regretted mine a single minute."

"That makes no difference.—So you say it's half-past twelve? Sapristi! Madame Louchard, when is that clock coming that you've been promising me so long?"

"I'm waiting for a good chance. I want something to match the rest of the furniture."

"In that case, my dear friend, as I have here a so-called Louis XIII desk, a Louis XV armchair, and a Louis XVI commode, it seems to me that you cannot do otherwise than procure a Louis XIV clock, to fill up the inter-regnum and reestablish the continuity of the dynasty."

"Yes, yes; I've seen lately a little rococo Pompadour one, second-hand."

"Take care! you don't go back far enough; I didn't say Pompadour, which would land you in the middle of Louis XV's reign! I said Louis XIV."

"Fourteenth or fifteenth! so long as it ain't too dear.—But what's all this? when I said you were in funds, I wasn't mistaken, was I? You've bought a new hat! I must say, you did well; for yours wouldn't have lasted out a storm."

"A new hat! What are you talking about, my fair hostess? I have thought of it more than once, but I have not yet carried out my project."

"Why, what's this, then?"

Madame Louchard took a hat from the commode and handed it to Cherami, who stared at it with wide-open eyes; for the hat was quite new and of a stylish shape.

"What the devil! is that my hat? That's a surprising thing; it has changed, much to its advantage; it has grown at least two years younger; and it fits me, pardieu! Yes, it fits me nicely; it's just the shape of my head."

"Of course you bought it yesterday?"

"Oh! no, I didn't buy it, I tell you again. Ah! I see: when I left that wedding ball, I was a little excited—a little angry; I seized the first hat that came under my hand, thinking it was mine."

"Well, there's no denying that you've got a lucky hand; you haven't lost by the change."

"Oh! dear me, such mistakes occur so often at balls and evening parties, that, frankly, I shall not demand mine back."

"You will make no mistake; but the man who found your hat in place of his—he may want his back."

"Very well! let him come; I am ready for him; I'll return his old tile, and give him others to boot."

"Ah! but that isn't all."

"What else is there, Widow Louchard? Can it be that I came home with two hats? I admit that that would astonish me."

"No, it isn't a hat this time; but this cane—this isn't your clothes-beater, which wasn't worth six sous."

Madame Louchard picked up a cane which lay in a corner of the room; it was a genuine rattan, with an agate head surrounded by gold rings, and cut in very peculiar fashion. She showed it to Cherami, who exclaimed in admiration:

"Oho! why, that's a beauty! A charming cane, excellent style—not too heavy; I like this sort of cameo for a head very much."

"So you got your cane the same way you did your hat, eh?"

"Pardieu! that goes without saying. It stood beside the hat. You see, I had placed my switch beside my beaver—so the joke was complete."

"Well, you're mighty lucky in your mistakes; that's sure. This cane must have cost a lot of money."

"Oh! I have seen much finer ones than this, in the old days. What the devil are you looking for on the floor and on the furniture, Madame Louchard?"

"Dame! I'm looking to see if you haven't brought something else home, by mistake."

Cherami instantly sat up in bed, crying:

"Thunder of Jupiter! Widow Louchard, what do you take me for, I'd like to know? Do you think I'm a thief, a pickpocket? I had a hat and a cane, and on leaving a ball I took a hat and a cane. They're not the ones that belong to me; I made a mistake, I was in error, and that may happen to anybody—errare humanum est, do you understand? No, you don't understand; never mind. But to carry away anything to which I have no right—fie! for shame!—To prove that I wouldn't do such a thing—I found a glove, and I returned it. Let me tell you, madame, that a man may be without money, have debts, borrow and not pay, and even play cards on his word—for if I had lost last night, I shouldn't have been able to pay on the spot; but all those things don't prevent one's being an honest man."

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Cherami, I don't say they do; you go off all of a sudden, like a spitfire!"

"Last night, I confess, I had dined very well. I wasn't drunk; I never get drunk; I was simply a little confused, which fully explains all these mistakes; and now, I feel as if I could take something."

"Would you like to have me make you a nice onion soup, while you're getting up? There's nothing that'll set you up better, the day after a spree."

"Onion soup! I do not disdain that dish; but I am tempted to look higher, and I believe that a good chicken—— But what's all that noise? I should say that a carriage was stopping in front of the hôtel! Go and look, my dear hostess."

Madame Louchard went to the window.

Monsieur Cherami

NOVELSBYP a u l d e K o c kVOLUME IIMONSIEUR CHERAMI

CONTENTS

IAN OMNIBUS OFFICE

IIA BLONDE AND A BRUNETTE

IIITHE YOUNG MAN FROM PLACE CADET

IVONLOOKERS AND LOITERERS

VTHE CAPUCINE FAMILY

VIMONSIEUR CHERAMI

VIITHE COAL DEALER

VIIITHE RESTAURANT IN PARC SAINT-FARGEAU

IXANOTHER WEDDING PARTY

XTHE YOUNGER SISTER

XIA CALCULATING YOUNG WOMAN

XIIGUSTAVE'S LOVE AFFAIR

XIIIA GENTLEMAN WHO HAD DINED WELL

XIVTHE PUNCH PRODUCES ITS EFFECT

XVTHE ÉCARTÉ PLAYERS

XVITHE BLANQUETTE WEDDING BALL

XVIIFURNISHED LODGINGS ON RUE DE L'ORILLON