← catalogue

The Flower Girl of The Château d'Eau, v.1 (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XV)

by Paul de Kock · English · Gutenberg #41299 · 428,033 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Flower Girl of The Château d'Eau, v.1 (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XV)
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Flower Girl of The Château d'Eau, v.1 (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XV)

Author: Paul de Kock


        
Release date: November 5, 2012 [eBook #41299]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41299

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images available at The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLOWER GIRL OF THE CHÂTEAU D'EAU, V.1 (NOVELS OF PAUL DE KOCK VOLUME XV) ***




Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)








[Illustration: fontispiece

_VIOLETTE RESISTS JÉRICOURT_


_Violette’s hands were active and strong; she put one of them to her
persecutor’s face and dug her nails in so far that the blood flowed
freely, and the pain forced the young man to relax his hold._]




NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock

VOLUME XV

THE FLOWER GIRL
OF THE
CHÂTEAU D’EAU

VOL. I

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

[Illustration: colophon]

GEORGE BARRIE’S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._




THE FLOWER GIRL

OF THE CHÂTEAU D’EAU




I

PAPA’S BIRTHDAY


It was the month of May in the year 1853--you see that our subject is
not lost in the night of time--it was a Monday and there was a flower
market on Boulevard Saint-Martin, in front, or rather on both sides of
the Château d’Eau. The booths of the dealers extended as far as Rue de
Lancry, a favor which had been only recently accorded to the flower
girls, but upon which the passers-by had as much reason to congratulate
themselves as the dealers and the people of that portion of the quarter.
Is there anything more delightful to the eye than flowers? What is there
which charms the sight and pleases the sense of smell more?

Are there people who do not love flowers? If you should tell me that
there were, I would not believe it.

The weather was fine, which was a rare occurrence during that spring, as
you must remember as well as I. The sun had deigned to show himself, and
people were very grateful to him, because the sun for the last few
years had become too high and mighty a prince in France; he no longer
condescended to mingle with the people, he showed himself too rarely to
the inhabitants of this part of the globe. And yet, although we do not
adore him on our knees, like the Incas, we take no less pleasure in
seeing him, in feeling the pleasant warmth of his beams, and although we
are great friends of invention and of progress, we have not yet found
anything to replace the sun.

There were therefore many people on the boulevards, and particularly
near the flower market; everyone was anxious to take advantage of a fine
day, not being certain of another on the morrow; and everybody was
sensible: fine weather, pleasure and happiness we must seize you when
you come to us, and never say: “I will wait till to-morrow.”

Among all the people who were walking and sauntering and examining the
flowers displayed on the asphalt or the concrete, there were, as is
always the case at that market, more women than men. Do the ladies care
more for flowers than we do? I might say some very pretty things on that
subject, as for example: “Birds of a feather flock together,” or: “Where
can one be more at home than in the bosom of his family?” or again--but
no, I will not repeat what you have already seen or heard a hundred
times. Moreover, I think that François I said something better than any
of that.

Furthermore, if the ladies are fonder of flowers than we are, you see
they have much more time to attend to them. I once knew a bachelor, a
clerk in a business house, who adored flowers, and although of small
means, could not resist the temptation to purchase a handsome rosebush
or a wood-violet, which he instantly carried home and placed in triumph
on his window-sill. But that gentleman was a heavy sleeper, and when he
woke he had hardly time to dress and go to his office. He did not dine
at home, and when he returned at night he was always in a hurry to go to
bed. The result was that, after two or three days, when he attempted to
gloat over the flower that he had purchased, he was surprised to find it
dead.

“But why didn’t you water it?” someone would ask him.

“Why--why--because I have noticed that it always rains sooner or later.”

We will, with your permission, allow those of the passers-by who are
indifferent to us to go their way, and will follow the steps of a family
composed of a mother, her son and her daughter.

The mother’s name was Madame Glumeau; her first name was Lolotte. She
was a lady who had reached the wrong side of forty; she had once been
pretty, a piquant brunette, whose bright and mischievous eyes made many
victims. But time had passed that way! What a deplorable passage, that
of time,--a passage which should be well barricaded!

It was not that Madame Glumeau’s features had changed very much. No, her
eyes were still very bright, her nose rather delicate; her hair, which
was yet black, still fell in thick curls on each side of her face; but
she had grown enormously stout, so that her whole figure was changed and
her waist enlarged.

Even the face had undergone the influence of that exuberant health; the
cheeks had become rotund, the chin had trebled, the neck had shortened,
and the complexion had become purple; and there were people who were
cruel enough to say to her:

“What perfect health you enjoy! No one needs to ask you how you are!”

At that compliment, Madame Glumeau would try to smile, as she replied:

“That is true, I am not often ill!”

But in the depths of her heart she bitterly lamented having become like
a ball, and would willingly have submitted to a severe illness, in order
to recover her figure of earlier days. However, as one is always
inclined to flatter oneself a little, Madame Glumeau was very far from
considering herself a _tower_, as her dear lady friends called her; and
when she looked at herself in the mirror, she still bestowed upon
herself a satisfied smile.

Let us come to the two children; we are not speaking of little brats,
who have to be led along by the hand, but of a boy of nineteen and a
young lady of sixteen.

The young man was very ill-favored; he had no one of his mother’s
features, and squinted in too pronounced a fashion, a fact which
necessarily imparted more or less vagueness to his countenance; but one
might judge from the expression of his face that Monsieur
Astianax--that was young Glumeau’s name--was not displeased with his
little person, and still less with his wit. Unluckily, nature had not
bestowed upon him a figure corresponding to the advantages with which he
considered himself to be endowed; despite the high heels that he wore
and the double soles that he put in his shoes, Monsieur Astianax Glumeau
had been unable to make himself taller than his mother, who was four
feet nine.

If young Glumeau was short, his sister, by way of compensation, at
sixteen, was as tall as a bean-pole, and threatened to attain the
stature of a drum-major. As thin as her mother was stout, Eolinde
Glumeau had at all events a face which did her honor; although she was
not so pretty as her mother had once been, she had regular features,
rather large eyes, a small mouth, fine teeth, and all the freshness of a
peach still on the tree. But--for there were always buts in that
family--Mademoiselle Eolinde was afflicted with a very noticeable defect
of speech; she stuttered in a way that was very tiresome to those who
listened to her. Her parents declared that that would cure itself, and
as a corrective to that infirmity they insisted that their daughter
should talk as much as possible. Mademoiselle Eolinde obeyed her parents
to an extent that was sometimes very terrible for her friends and
acquaintances.

The Glumeau family had been on Boulevard du Château d’Eau a long while,
going from one dealer to another, stopping in front of the flowers,
sticking their noses into the finest ones, asking the price,
hesitating, and not deciding.

At last Madame Glumeau turned about once more and halted in front of a
very handsome pomegranate tree, saying:

“I think I will buy this pomegranate for your father. A pomegranate will
please Honoré; he will like it very much.”

“But, mamma, what connection is there between this shrub and my father?”
queried young Glumeau, looking toward Boulevard du Temple and Porte
Saint-Martin at the same moment.

“What’s that! what connection? What do you mean by that, Astianax? Isn’t
to-morrow your father’s fête-day, as his name is Honoré? We are going to
give him flowers as usual. I select this pomegranate, which is very
handsome; I don’t see what there is in that to surprise you.”

“It isn’t that, mamma; I said: ‘what connection is there between a
pomegranate--_grenadier_--and my father, who has never been a soldier?’
Oh! if he had been a soldier, I could understand your choice of this
shrub and the allusion, but----”

“But, my dear boy, you are terribly tiresome with your allusions; you
want to put allusions in everything; just wait until you are a man.”

“Excuse me, dear mamma, but flowers have a language; so in your place I
should have thought that a myrtle, the emblem of love----”

“My dear boy, I have been giving your father myrtles for twenty years
and he must have had enough of them. Everything in life goes by, and we
have used the myrtle long enough; it seems to me that I can properly
vary it a little. After twenty years one is not forbidden to change
bouquets. I have decided, I am going to buy this pomegranate.--Don’t you
think, Eolinde, that this will please your father?”

“Oh! ye--ye--yes, it will pl--please him very mu--u--uch.”

“But what are you going to buy for him? You must make up your mind,
children, for we intend to go to the play after dinner, and it is
getting late.”

“B--b--bless me!” replied the tall young lady, “I would li--i--ike that
fl--fl--flower--you know--you know--it’s the--I d--d--don’t see it.”

“But what flower? tell us its name.”

“I d--d--don’t reme--e--ember.”

“In that case, ask the woman if she has any,” said Monsieur Astianax,
smiling maliciously, for he very often made fun of the difficulty which
his sister had in speaking.

“What a stu--u--u--pid you are, Astianax!” cried the girl, shrugging her
shoulders and looking down at her brother as if she were searching for a
little dog. “Let me alo--o--one; it’s a flow--ower with b--b--bells.”

“Bells?”

“No, little bell-flowers--brown.”

“Oh, I know what you mean, daughter; it is a--I don’t know the name; but
come, I saw some over yonder.”

And the stout lady, having paid for the pomegranate and hired a porter
to carry it, led her daughter to the booth of a dealer who had a large
assortment of tulips. Mademoiselle Eolinde examined them for some time,
then murmured:

“This isn’t what I wanted. No matter, let me see. Oh! they don’t
smell--they don’t smell of anything; I’d rather get something else.”

“Well, what? Come, choose.”

“Oh! see that fl--flower over there; a m--m--mag--no----”

“The name makes no difference, let us go and buy it.”

Mademoiselle Eolinde stopped in front of a magnificent magnolia, which
had already flowered in the heat of a greenhouse; she placed her nose
upon the lovely white egg-shaped blossom, which, as it opened, exhaled a
delicious odor of orange and lemon; then she raised her head and said:
“That smells too strong.”

“Look here, mamzelle!” cried the flower woman, irritated to see the tall
girl take her mother away in another direction, “you mustn’t stick your
face on our flowers like that! Did anyone ever see such a bean-pole as
that creature who buries her muzzle in the blossom of my magnolia, and
then walks off, as if she had been sniffing at my poodle’s tail! Go on,
you long-legged cockroach! Go somewhere else and buy Indian pinks,
they’ll suit you better!”

The Glumeau family did not hear, or rather pretended not to hear the
somewhat forcible complaints of the woman with the magnolia; they had
stopped in front of a booth where there was a large quantity of laurel.
Mademoiselle Eolinde, whom the lesson which she had just received had
not corrected, smelled several laurel bushes and cried:

“Ah! that sm--smells nasty!”

This time Madame Glumeau hastily dragged her daughter away, saying in
her ear:

“Why, Eolinde, do you want to get into a row and have scenes with all
these flower women? You shouldn’t say such things as that, my girl,
especially when you don’t buy; and if you won’t decide upon what you
want, we will go away and you won’t have a flower to give your father,
who is so fond of them. That will be very nice on his birthday!”

“If you will take my advice, sister,” said Monsieur Astianax, “you’ll
give our father a pot of immortelles, because you see the immortelle
means that he will live a long time, and the allusion is easily
understood.”

“A pot of immortelles!” cried the mother; “they are lovely flowers, upon
my word! You are mad, Astianax! You might as well give your father a pot
of sweet-basil such as the cobblers have in their stalls.--Look,
Eolinde, there is a superb rosebush! come, let us buy that,--that will
be your bouquet.”

“Oh! but a ro--o--osebush; I wanted s--s--something else.”

“That is to say, you don’t know what you do want; and this unfortunate
messenger who is following us with that huge pomegranate in his arms,
looks as if he were swimming in perspiration.”

“Why, it isn’t so ve--ve--very hot, mamma!”

Madame Glumeau, paying no heed to the lamentations of her daughter, who
did not want the rosebush, but did not know what she did want, ordered
her messenger to take the flower, then turned to her son and said:

“Now, Astianax, you are the only one who has not chosen a flower, but I
believe you told me that you preferred to give your father a bouquet to
carry in the hand.”

“Yes, dear mamma, because in a bouquet for the hand, you choose
different flowers, which have even more meaning when placed side by
side. The Turks call that a _selam;_ I mean to give my father a
_selam._”

“But in what connection? Your father never has claimed to be a Turk, so
far as I know! He won’t have any idea what your bouquet means.”

“I beg your pardon, dear mamma, I will explain the allusion to him.”

“All right, but make haste; it seems to me that you might very well have
selected your oriental bouquet while we were choosing our plants!”

“I’ve been looking, but haven’t found what I want!”

“But there certainly is no lack of flower girls here. Ah! there is one
who is very pretty indeed; if her bouquets resemble her, I think that
you will find what you want.”




II

VIOLETTE


Madame Glumeau had said nothing beyond the truth, when she observed that
the flower girl to whom she pointed was very pretty, for she was
speaking of Violette.

Let us then make Violette’s acquaintance; it is always pleasant to know
a pretty girl, even though she sells bouquets, but especially when she
sells nothing else.

Violette was from eighteen to nineteen years of age; her figure was
slender and shapely; she was tall enough but not too tall, which, in
women, is rather a defect than an advantage; but there was grace in all
her movements, and refinement in her simplicity.

Her face was oval; her fine brown hair left bare a forehead which was
instinct with innocence and pride. Her eyes too were brown, but their
expression was immeasurably sweet and they were fringed by long lashes
which imparted to them an infinite charm; the eyebrows were but slightly
marked. Her mouth was not very small, but it was intelligent; small
mouths, which are unintelligent, of which there are so many, are not
nearly so desirable. Lastly, her teeth were white and very regular. As
you see, all these things must have combined to make a very pretty girl.
Still there are many who possess all Violette’s advantages, but whom we
pass without being charmed by them; the reason is, that it is not always
sufficient to be beautiful in order to attract; a woman must also have
in herself that indefinable something which fascinates, which surprises,
which allures, which gives expression to the face and charm to the
voice. That something is a gift of nature, which coquetry tries in vain
to supply, and the flower girl had that gift. Moreover, there was in her
speech and in her manners something which distinguished her from her
companions. She expressed herself in better language and she was always
courteous, even when one did not buy of her. So that Violette was
noticed first for her beauty and then for her courtesy. Courtesy is a
thing so rare among street peddlers, and even elsewhere! There are so
many people who think that they acquire the air of being somebody by
affecting an insolent tone and a contemptuous glance! Poor fools! If
they did not arouse laughter, they would arouse compassion.

But was this flower girl, who expressed herself in better language than
others of her trade, the child of rich people stricken by misfortune?
Was it to support destitute and infirm parents that that pretty girl had
decided to take up a business for which she was not born?

Not at all. Violette did not know her parents, she did not know whether
they still lived, but what she did know perfectly was that they had
abandoned her.

Put out to nurse in a small village of Picardie, near Abbeville, she
evidently possessed little interest for them, for they had forgotten to
pay the woman who had undertaken to replace her mother. The nurse was
patient for a long while, but after three years, hearing nothing from
her nursling’s parents, and being too poor to add a little stranger to
her numerous family, the woman was about to leave the child at the
Foundling Hospital, when an old lady who was passing through the
village, touched with compassion for the deserted little one, offered
the nurse to take charge of her and to take her to Paris with her.

The nurse assented, and took the lady’s address, in order that she might
write to her if the child’s parents should ever claim her.

But who were her parents?

To the lady’s question the peasant woman replied:

“Faith, I hardly know, or rather I don’t know, at all. As to the mother,
I am very sure I never saw her. I was at the nurses’ bureau on Rue
Sainte-Apolline; a fine gentleman--I guess he was a servant--came into
the place, while I was taking the air in the yard; I was the first one
he saw, and he asked me if I wanted to take a brat that was born the
night before. I says yes; then he says: ‘I don’t need to look any
further; you’ll do as well as another; take your bundle and come.’--I
went with him; there was a carriage at the door, and I got in with the
swell servant. We drove to a street I don’t know the name of, he took me
into a house, with a concierge, and up to the second floor, into a
handsome room. I found a gentleman there, very well dressed, a pretty
man with a fine figure; he had a splendid gold chain sticking out of
his fob. He was a young man, about thirty-two or thirty-three, more or
less. And when he saw the man come in who had brought me there, he says:

“‘Come, make haste, Comtois! I don’t know what to do with the child! It
has been crying until it has burst the drum of my ear, but I can’t nurse
it. Have you brought a nurse at last?’

“‘Yes, monsieur, here’s one who will take charge of the little girl.’

“‘Ah! that is very lucky!’

“And with that the gentleman, without even looking at me to see how I
was built and whether I had much milk, motioned to me to go with him
into another room, where I saw a little girl, just come into the world,
wriggling on a sofa with cushions; they didn’t even have a cradle for
her. The gentleman says to me:

“‘Take this child and carry it away at once, for it cries enough to
split one’s head.’

“To that I answers:

“‘It will be twenty francs a month, without counting sugar and soap!’

“‘All right, that’s understood,’ he says; and he puts a hundred francs
in my hand, saying: ‘This is for the first expenses; don’t you be
afraid, I’ll send you money, you shall have plenty of it.’

“At that I makes another reverence and says:

“‘I am a Picarde, monsieur, from the village of Coulange, near
Abbeville; my name is Marguerite Thomasseau; my husband raises donkeys,
and we’ve had four nurslings already.’

“‘All right, take this little one and go.’

“‘But, monsieur,’ I says, ‘what about the _layette;_ where’s the little
one’s _layette?_’

“At that, the handsome gentleman looks at his swell servant as if he was
surprised, and says:

“‘What’s this woman talking about? What’s a _layette?_’

“The servant who was better instructed than his master, says:

“‘Monsieur, it is the child’s trousseau, the little things that people
give to dress it in.’

“‘Oh! the devil! I didn’t know that myself, and it seems she didn’t
think of it either! Never mind, Comtois, give her some of my trousers
and waistcoats, give her my old dressing-gown and some linen; the nurse
can make them over and we’ll send her something else later. Make haste,
Comtois. Here, put in this handkerchief too, which belongs to the
child’s mother, and which I put in my pocket by mistake yesterday.’

“The servant made me up a bundle in a hurry; and a queer _layette_ it
was, I tell you! I don’t believe that any young one ever had one like
it; it consisted of a woolen dressing-gown lined with silk, three pairs
of broadcloth trousers, six cravats, two white piqué waistcoats and one
black satin one, six fine shirts, a pair of suspenders, and a white
handkerchief embroidered with a cipher, with a coronet on it. As for the
handkerchief, I still have that, I have kept it so that the child might
have something that belonged to her parents. However, all that stuff was
better than nothing; I took the bundle and they were already turning me
out of the room with my nursling, when I remembered that I didn’t know
anybody’s name.

“‘Well, monsieur, what’s the little one’s name, and yours, and your
wife’s?’

“At that the gentleman made a funny kind of face; he hesitated a long
while, as if he was trying to think what answer he could make, and
finally he said:

“‘The child’s name is Evelina--Evelina de Paulausky.--Now go; I will
write to you.’

“At that he pushed me out with the child and the bundle. I started back
the same day; and since then, and that was three years ago, not a word
from the child’s parents. Evelina they called her, but we found that
name too long and too hard to pronounce, and so, as the child when she
was a year old, loved violets and could pick them as she rolled about on
the grass, why we just called her Violette; you can call her so too, if
you choose. She answers to that name better than to Evelina!”

That is what the nurse had told the good woman who took Violette to
Paris. That charitable person was by no means wealthy, but she had given
the child some education. Violette had learned to read, to write, and to
do some kinds of sewing, but her protectress died before she was very
learned. The child was only eleven when she lost her.

Being left alone and without resources, and having too much pride to beg
her bread, she went from door to door, to all the people in the quarter,
saying:

“Please give me something to do; I am able to work; I know how to knit
and sew; I will do anything you want, but employ me, I beg you, for I
would rather starve to death than beg and live on the charity of
passers-by.”

These words indicated a certain pride and a lofty spirit; they indicated
above all else Violette’s horror of idleness, which is the most
dangerous of all faults. They were worth more than a letter of
recommendation.

A dealer in fruit said to her:

“I know a lady who is looking for a young maid to take her little ones
to walk. I will give you her address, you can go to see her, and perhaps
she’ll hire you. But oh, dear! I am afraid that she’ll think you a
little too young.--How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“You must tell her you’re fourteen.”

“Oh, no! I won’t lie, madame; my protectress always told me that that
was a very wicked habit.”

“Ah! my girl, anyone can see that you are young! If you pass your life
without lying, you’ll be a famous phenomenon, and they’ll exhibit you
later for two sous. However, that’s your business. You can do as you
choose.”

Violette went to see the lady who was looking for a young nursemaid. Her
first question, as she looked at Violette, was:

“How old are you?”

And when the girl told her the truth, she dismissed her, saying:

“Why, you are much too young! You are only a child yourself; how do you
expect me to give you my children to take care of?”

“Oh! I am very prudent, very sensible for my age, madame; inquire at
number thirty-two; and then you can give me whatever you please, madame,
I don’t care; so long as I can live without begging, that is all I ask.”

These last words caused the lady to reflect, for there are people who
calculate closely on every subject, even when the welfare of their
children is concerned; such people are ordinarily the ones who consider
it very hard that dogs are ordered to be muzzled. She called Violette
back and said:

“Come again to-morrow; I will make inquiries at the house you mention.”

The next day Violette became nursemaid, with a hundred francs a year.
That sum seemed enormous to the child, who would have taken the place
for nothing if it had been suggested to her. And as her mistress lived
on Rue de Bondy, she took the two little girls of three or four years to
walk every day on the Boulevard, near the Château d’Eau. When it was the
day for the flower market, Violette never failed to take the children
there, and then she was very happy, for she adored flowers, and even if
she had not the means to buy any, on that day she could see them and
gaze at them at her leisure.

More than three years passed thus. Violette’s mistress had never had to
find fault with her little maid, for she had never left for a single
instant the children whom it was her duty to take to walk. However, her
wages were not increased; to be sure, Violette did not ask for an
increase, and to obtain distinction in this world, it is not sufficient
to behave oneself well, to have merit or talent--one must ask, ask, and
then--ask. And as people who are out of the line do not understand that,
they prefer to be undistinguished except by their talent.

The mother of the two little girls whom Violette had in charge left
Paris and France; she took her children, but did not take the young
nurse. So that Violette was left once more without a home and without
occupation. While waiting until chance should throw employment in her
way, the girl as a matter of habit went to the Boulevard du Château
d’Eau, where she had taken the children so often; and on market days she
stopped in front of the flowers and sometimes remained there all day
long.

One day, one of the flower women, an honest old soul, who had often
noticed the little nurse when she was taking the two children to walk,
said to Violette, who seemed to be admiring her bouquets:

“Well, my girl, what have you done with the brats that you always
brought here to walk? For I know you, I have looked after you very
often; and bless my soul, it don’t seem to me that anyone had any reason
to complain of you. You didn’t run about from one place to another. You
didn’t talk with a lot of people, as most of the nurses do that have
children to take care of! Mon Dieu! if nothing happens to the young
ones, it isn’t the fault of those young women, who attend to everything
else except the children that are in their care!”

“Alas! madame, my mistress has gone to England with her children.”

“And you didn’t want to leave your country, eh?”

“Oh! I would have been glad to go with madame, but she didn’t choose to
take me!”

“And she left you like that, without getting another place for you--a
girl of your age, who took such good care of her little ones? Ah! that
isn’t right, that isn’t. That mistress of yours can’t be good for
much!--But what are you doing now, my child?”

“I am looking for another place, madame, but I haven’t found it yet.
Luckily I saved money at my mistress’s; I earned a hundred francs a
year!”

“Is that all? Well, upon my word! she wasn’t very generous, that
mistress of yours!”

“Oh! I had quite enough; I didn’t spend anything except to dress myself;
and now I have some clothes and sixty francs of my own; I spend so
little to live; I get along with five or six sous a day.”

“Poor child! In that case, you’re not much of a glutton; why, you must
live on bread and water.”

“I beg pardon, I have a sou’s worth of milk every morning; bread dipped
in milk is so good!”

“Bless my soul! It is good for those who like milk! But no matter, that
diet will soon take away your fresh color. I say, you must be very fond
of flowers to look at them so long, as if you wanted to kiss them!”

“Flowers! oh! I am mad over them, madame, I am never tired of gazing at
them.”

“So, so! and how would you like to sell them, to make bouquets as I do?”

“Make bouquets! live among flowers! you ask me if I would like that? Oh,
madame! that would be the happiest life for me. It seems to me that one
has nothing more to wish for when one is a flower girl!”

“Well, my child, sit down here, by my side. I am alone, I have no
children, and no one depending on me; I am beginning not to be so smart
as I used to be; if you choose to stay with me and always be as
good--as--as you were when you took the two little girls to walk, why, I
will keep you, I will give you part of my profits; in fact, I will make
a flower girl of you; does that suit you?”

“Does it suit me,--to be a flower girl! such a pleasant trade! Is it
really true, madame? You are not making fun of me?”

“As true as my name is Mère Gazon; and yours?”

“My name is Violette.”

“Violette! You see you were destined to be a flower girl.”

So Violette took her place beside Mère Gazon; and she was so pleased
with the skill and taste with which the girl made her bouquets, that she
congratulated herself every day upon having taken her into her employ.

Violette reached the age of fifteen, sixteen, and became so pretty and
her figure assumed such graceful proportions that people began to notice
the young flower girl, and Mère Gazon’s business constantly increased.
Then came the lady-killers, the oglers, the gallants, who tried to make
love to Violette, but she did not listen to them, or at all events paid
no heed to what they said. Moreover, Mère Gazon was there and said to
those who paid her companion compliments:

“For heaven’s sake, let the child alone! You see well enough that you
bother her with your fine words, without head or tail! Go and get your
hair curled, that would be better.”

But one night, Mère Gazon, who had rather abused currant brandy, which
she adored as a cordial, felt an oppression that compelled her to keep
her bed. The next day she was worse, and she said to her young
companion:

“My dear Violette, I believe I am going to pack up and not open shop any
more. I leave you all I have; my stock, my flowers, my furniture, my
customers. Always be honest and virtuous, don’t let anyone cajole you
and I have an idea that you will prosper. If I myself had been more
prudent with currant brandy, I might have kept shop much longer! but
never mind! that’s a small matter! I am glad, at all events, to have you
with me to close my eyes.”

That is Violette’s whole story; that is how the little girl abandoned by
her parents had become a flower girl.




III

GEORGET AND CHICOTIN


“We would like a magnificent bouquet, mademoiselle,” said Madame Glumeau
to Violette.

“Yes,” said Mademoiselle Eolinde, “a su--su--superb bou--bou----”

“That isn’t all,” said Monsieur Astianax, doing his utmost to look at
the pretty flower girl with both eyes at once. “I wish to express a
certain meaning in presenting a bouquet to my father, so that the
flowers must interpret my meaning; I would like a _selam_, mademoiselle;
give me a _selam_.”

Violette stared at him as she replied:

“I don’t know that flower, monsieur; does it grow in boxes or in pots?”

“A _selam_ is not a single flower, mademoiselle; it is an arrangement of
flowers, which means something particular; it’s an oriental bouquet.”

“I have no oriental flowers, monsieur.”

“But you don’t catch my meaning, I mean----”

“Upon my word, Astianax, you are insufferable; you will keep us here two
hours when you know that we are in a hurry; select yourself the flowers
that you want, and she will make them into a bouquet for you.”

Monsieur Astianax, confused by the flower girl’s lovely eyes, turned
very red and began to rummage among the flowers on the counter,
stammering:

“But I don’t see--I am looking--I don’t find--I would like--haven’t you
got any?”

“Tell me what flowers you want, monsieur; that will be better than
upsetting my whole stock.”

But the little fellow could not admire the pretty flower girl enough,
and he had no idea what he wanted.

The porter who had in his arms the box with the pomegranate, which was
very heavy, and the rosebush, which was not light, said to Madame
Glumeau:

“If you’re going to be here long, lady, I am going to get a basket to
put these things in.”

“Oh, no! it isn’t worth while, messenger; we are going at once.--Well,
my son, have you chosen your flowers?”

“I don’t find what I am looking for.”

“Bless my soul! Eolinde, is not that Cousin Michonnard, standing over
there?”

“Yes, yes, mamma, it is she.”

“Ah! if she sees us, we are lost; she will follow us wherever we go; we
shall not be able to get rid of her, for she is quite capable of
inviting herself to dinner. You know that your father doesn’t like her
because she always says that he doesn’t look well. Let’s go along at
once before she sees us.--Come, Astianax.”

“But my dear mother, I haven’t any bouquet.”

“It is your own fault, you take too long to decide. You can present your
father with a Savoy cake with his monogram, that will be just as
respectful. Come, come!--Follow us, messenger.”

And this time, without listening to the remonstrances of her son, who
declared that a cake did not express his meaning, the stout lady took
his arm and dragged him away, but not until the little fellow had darted
a random glance in Violette’s direction. In a few moments the Glumeau
family had disappeared.

Thereupon, a young man in a blouse, with a cap on his head, and with a
shrewd, clever face and a slender figure which denoted sixteen years at
most, although he was past seventeen, began to laugh as he looked at the
pretty flower girl, beside whom he had stopped, and said to her:

“Well, my word! there’s customers for you! They come here and handle and
move your flowers and spoil them, and then go away without buying
anything.”

“Dear me, Monsieur Georget, that’s the way it is in business; one can’t
always sell.”

“But the young man would have liked to stay, I fancy. What eyes he made
at you, zigzag! A man shouldn’t be allowed to squint like that! I am
sure it would exempt him from the conscription; for when a man looks all
ways at once, he can hardly fire straight at the enemy.--But no matter,
you have turned his head.”

“Mon Dieu! to hear you, Georget, one would think that everybody is in
love with me!”

“Well, it seems to me that you don’t lack suitors and gallants. There
are days when a fellow can’t get near your shop, there are so many
people around you!”

“I have no reason to complain, that is true. I sell a great deal. My
bouquets seem to please.”

“Oh! your bouquets--and yourself too. When the dealer is good-looking,
that makes business good; and deuce take it! you are mighty
good-looking.”

“You know very well, Georget, that nothing tires me so much as
compliments!”

“Then you must get tired very often! you receive them all day!”

“I can’t prevent the gentlemen who buy flowers of me from talking
nonsense to me! but it seems to me that you might get along without it.”

“So what I say to you is nonsense, is it?”

“Instead of idling away your time every market day, walking back and
forth in front of my stand, wouldn’t you do better to work?”

“Do you mean that you don’t like to have me stop in front of your shop
sometimes, mamzelle?”

“I don’t say that, but I ask you if you would not do better to work.”

“All right, mamzelle, that’s enough. I won’t stand near you any more,
never fear! If you don’t like it, why, I----”

“Oh! how wrong-headed you are, Monsieur Georget! a body can’t give you a
little advice, eh?”

But the young messenger was no longer listening to the pretty flower
girl; he walked away with a very pronounced frown, and sat down upon one
of the steps of the Château d’Eau. He had hardly settled down when
another youngster of nineteen, tall, strong and active, with his cap
cocked over one ear in true roistering fashion, came and stood in front
of him, crying:

“Ah! here’s Georget! here’s my little Georget! I am glad of that; I
thought he must have been swallowed by the whale on exhibition over
yonder, behind us. To be sure, I know that it isn’t alive; but never
mind, you might have crawled into its mouth. I say, Georget, have you
seen the whale?”

“Let me alone, I don’t feel like talking!”

“Well! I paid to see the whale, because as I’d never seen the sea, I
said to myself: ‘That will give me an idea of its inhabitants.’--But
confound it! how I was sold! Just fancy--I went into a long, narrow
place, like a corridor with boarded walls. I couldn’t see anything, no
water at all. I said to myself: ‘Where in the deuce is the whale?’ but
there was a fellow in a sailor’s suit, walking up and down the corridor,
singing out at the top of his lungs: ‘See, ladies and gentlemen, look,
examine this rare animal! It’s the first whale that’s been seen in
France since the Roman conquest! It was harpooned at Havre and would
have been brought to Paris alive, if there had been room enough for it
in a first-class carriage!’--When I heard that, I squinted up my eyes to
find the marine monster. When I first went into the corridor, I had
noticed something like a pile of earth, on the floor between two boards,
and I said to myself: ‘It seems that they are going to plant flowers in
the place to brighten it up!’ But not at all: that black thing, between
two boards, was the whale! I discovered it when I reached the end of the
corridor, because then I saw a kind of head, with a beard, at one end of
what I had taken for earth. I was mad, I tell you! I regretted my money,
and I said to the sailor: ‘If you’d told me beforehand that I was going
to see a whale in a box, and dry as a herring, I wouldn’t have come into
your old barrack!’--Well, little Georget, why don’t you laugh?”

“I tell you to let me alone, I don’t feel like laughing!”

“Why, what under the sun is the matter with the little mummy! He’s got
to be as melancholy as an empty stomach for some time past! Come, I
propose to cheer you up; I’ll treat you to a glass at the wine
merchant’s on Rue Basse.”

“Thanks, I am not thirsty.”

“And then you will come to the theatre this evening with me. I don’t
mean the Délasses, or the Funambs, or the Petit-Lazare; I go to the big
theatres now; I have become an habitué of the Folies-Dramatiques!
Nothing less! You see, when one has seen Mamzelle Duplessis, in _‘Une
Mauvaise Nuit Est Bientôt Passée,’_ one doesn’t care to see anything
else! It is magnificent! Mamzelle Duplessis is in a night jacket
embroidered with lace, like a bride preparing to retire. Dieu! how
lovely she is! I dream of her every night as I go to bed! And then,
Monsieur Christian, in _‘La Perruque de Mon Oncle!’_ When he says: ‘Ah!
fichtre! sacrebleu! hush or I will thrash you!’ or something else in
that line, I tell you it’s amusing! I laugh until I make a show of
myself! And just now Monsieur Christian passed here--you didn’t see
him--the real man, the one who plays at the Folies; and he bought a
bunch of violets, and smiled because I said to him: ‘Monsieur Christian,
do you want me to carry you?’--Ha! ha! that made him laugh!--Well,
Georget, I say, Georget! you little wretch of a Georget! what in the
world has somebody been doing to you, Gringalet?”

“If you call me Gringalet, I’ll punch your head, do you understand?”

“Oho! how ugly the little rascal is! What have you been treading on
to-day?”

“I may be small without being a Gringalet, or a wretch. I am seventeen
years, eight months and ten days.”

“You look as if you were about twelve or less!”

“The looks make no difference; I am not a child any more, and I don’t
propose to be treated like an urchin.”

“Ah! you wish to be looked up to, perhaps?”

“If anyone insults me, he must fight me.”

“Tell me what you have eaten this morning? You are not so ugly as this
usually!”

“But you are teasing me! saying things that make me angry!”

“Then as I am in the wrong, thrash me right away and let’s have it over
with! But I don’t propose to fight with you, because I am your friend,
and I like you with all your ill-humor! Come, strike me!”

As he spoke, Chicotin Patatras--for such was the name of this last
individual--coolly planted himself in front of his friend, and stooped
as if he were all ready to be beaten. But when he saw that, Georget
rose, his anger vanished, and he offered his hand to his comrade,
saying:

“Can you think of such a thing? I, strike you! that would be pretty!
Come, it is all over, I am not angry any more; nor you either, are you?”

“Oh! I haven’t been at all!”

“You see, Chicotin, there are many people who say that you are a
ne’er-do-well, a brawler, and a sot; they have nicknamed you Patatras,
because wherever you go, you always arrive like a bomb and turn
everything topsy-turvy! But I do you justice, and I have always defended
you; and if you are noisy, and if you do sometimes throw a whole company
into confusion, you have a good heart all the same, and when you are
fond of anybody, he can always rely on you.”

“Pardi! a man is a good friend, or he isn’t. A door is open or shut, one
or the other! that’s all I know!--Well, will you go to the
Folies-Dramatiques with me to-night? I’ll treat you; I have some cash; I
carried a bouquet to the young lady! Ah! bless my soul! that bouquet
evidently gave pleasure, for she put five francs in my hand; the
gentleman had given me as much! in all, two hind wheels, six times as
much as the bouquet was worth! But these lovers! tell me who else is so
generous, when they are satisfied, and are in funds? ‘Tis love, love,
love, that makes the world go round!”

“Oh, yes! the rich lovers, they are happy enough! they can make their
sweethearts handsome presents!”

“Bah! they are not the ones I envy, especially as I have noticed that
the ones who are loved the best are not the ones who give the most
presents! A little more pains is taken to deceive them, that’s all! I
see so many things, when I am doing errands, opening carriage doors, or
asking for theatre checks! But the actors! Oh, the actors! when I can be
employed by one of them, then I am perfectly happy! I went on the stage
once, that is to say, under the stage, at the Ambigu! It’s mighty
amusing, I tell you, and you see a lot of things--that you don’t expect
to see!--But you are not listening to me, Georget. Ah! I can guess what
you’re thinking about, with your eyes always turned in that direction!
So it is all over, is it? You’re in love for good and all!”

“Hush, Chicotin, don’t say that, I beg you!”

“I say it because I see it; I don’t need to be a sleep-walker to guess
that! You’re in love with the pretty flower girl, Mamzelle Violette!”

“I never told anybody so!”

“You don’t need to tell it, it’s plain enough; that’s what upsets you
so, and changes your whole disposition, and gives you a sour look, a
dismal expression, like Monsieur Goujet of the Gaîté, when he plays the
traitors, the abductors who carry off young girls! Ah! how magnificent
he was in _‘Martin et Bamboche!’_ I was a little bit of a fellow when I
saw that, but I still have the piece in my head all the same, it
impressed me so. He had on a white coat, rather neat, did Monsieur
Goujet; he played the part of a well-dressed son, who treated his father
like the deuce!--Confound it! He isn’t listening to me because I’ve
stopped talking about the flower girl! Why, is this passion of yours
making you an idiot? As if a man ever fell in love for good at your age!
For my part, I like pretty girls too; but it doesn’t make me so stupid
as it does you! it never lasts more than a week! Let your beard grow,
then you’ll have the right to pose as a sentimental lover! Ah! now he
turns as red as a turkey-cock! What is going on? Ah! I see; because two
fine gentlemen, two swells have stopped and are looking at the flower
girl’s wares. I suppose you’d like it if nobody ever bought anything of
your pretty dealer? She’d do a fine business then!”

“Oh! but I know those two young men; they come very often to buy flowers
of her and they always talk nonsense to her; especially the tallest one!
He actually dared one time to ask her to be his mistress! Ah! if big
Chopard hadn’t held me back, I’d have jumped on him; I’d have scratched
him and bitten him!”

“Hoity-toity! is that the way you propose to treat Mamzelle Violette’s
customers? You’ll give her shop a good reputation!”

“That’s what Chopard said, to calm me down!”

“Besides, don’t all these dandies--that is what they call these
fellows--don’t all these dandies talk that way to women, especially when
they are pretty? It’s their way; they must always play the lady-killer;
if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be dandies! But I know one of those young
men, too; the tallest one is an author,--that means a man who writes
plays; his name is Jéricourt; I’ve carried letters to his room sometimes
from the other one, who isn’t so tall; that one has employed me often;
just now he’s very attentive to an actress at the Folies, a little
blonde with black eyes, who plays such parts as Rigolette,--Mademoiselle
Dutaillis. I’ll bet that she’s the one he’s going to buy a bouquet for,
and then he’ll take her to dinner at Bonvalet’s; and when she’s in the
cast, they keep sending me to the theatre, to the box office, to ask how
far they have got. I always ask a handsome man who is sitting inside the
office, and he answers with a sly look: ‘Go and tell mademoiselle that
she has time enough to eat another course, provided that it isn’t carp,
because the bones might make her lose her cue.’”

“Oh, yes! I know well enough that it isn’t the light-haired one who is
dangerous to Violette; it’s the other one!”

“And why should the other one be dangerous, when everyone says that the
little flower girl is virtuous? You yourself told me so a hundred
times.”

“Certainly she is virtuous, perfectly virtuous. If she wasn’t, if she
was anything else, do you suppose I’d be mad over her as I am?”

“Then what difference does it make to you whether people pay her
compliments and make love to her? She won’t listen to them.”

“Who can tell? A young girl sometimes ends by allowing herself to be
deceived by all these soft speeches. They offer her dresses, jewels,
entertainments, love--it’s all very tempting. Look, see how that tall,
scented fellow is leaning over her counter to speak to her! I don’t
care; no matter what happens, I am going to tell that man to act
different from that!”

“Upon my word! be good enough to stay here. You don’t like to see him
talking with the flower girl; very good, let me fix him; I haven’t been
nicknamed Patatras for nothing!”




IV

TWO WELL-KNOWN YOUNG MEN


Two young men had, in fact, stopped in front of the pretty flower girl’s
booth; each of them was from twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age;
their eccentric costumes marked them out as dandies, or at least as
persons who strove to appear to be such.

Especially the shorter one, who wore plaid trousers of very bright
colors, each plaid being so large that a single one extended from the
thigh to the calf; his light sack coat hardly came below his waist, and
when he bent forward a little, disclosed the whole seat of his trousers.
He wore on his head a broad-brimmed gray hat with a long nap; and he
had stuck in one eye a small bit of glass, set in tortoise shell, which,
when not in use, hung down over his waistcoat of buff piqué, at the end
of a black ribbon. He was, for all this dandified equipment, a very
good-looking youth, with black eyes, a shapely aquiline nose, a small
mouth with red lips, fine teeth, a pretty pink and white complexion, a
little dimple in his chin, very light whiskers, a pointed beard, and
with all that, a stupid expression which was not in the least
misleading.

This young man had been a clerk in a business house with a salary of
eight hundred francs, and a slight bonus at the end of the year; at that
time, as may be imagined, his dress was much less elegant, and it was
difficult for him to follow the fashions. But a distant relative died,
and unexpectedly left him sixty thousand francs in cash. This
unhoped-for fortune, which enabled him to gratify his dearest wishes,
his fondest hopes, had almost turned his brain.

First of all, he began by correcting his certificates of baptism; his
name was Benoît Canard, a name which struck the ear unpleasantly, and
had nothing romantic or refined about it; he adopted the name of Alfred
de Saint-Arthur, which was certain to attract the attention of the
ladies. When a man’s name is Alfred de Saint-Arthur, he must inevitably
belong to the _haute_, as the lorettes of the Bréda quarter say.

Next, Alfred soon resigned his place, hired a dainty apartment,
purchased a cabriolet and a horse, and patronized one of the first
tailors in Paris; he affected the society of actresses, choosing those
who were most talked about, and who had led their lovers into the most
follies; for, although Monsieur Alfred de Saint-Arthur had some
inclination for that life of dissipation, of parade and extravagances
which some favorites of fortune lead, and which is excusable only in
those who really have the means to support it, the thing that especially
delighted the young man was to show himself, to put himself in evidence
with a fashionable woman, to display himself in the proscenium box of a
theatre, or in a calèche in the Bois du Boulogne; to make a great noise
when he entered a restaurant, to declare all the private rooms
inconvenient, to shout at the waiters, to find fault with everything,
always to talk very loud, so that everybody might hear him, to smoke
only eight sou cigars, and to see everybody turn to look at him when he
was out driving.

In a word, what Alfred desired was to create a sensation; the same
pleasures, enjoyed in private, without show, without witnesses, or in
curtained boxes at the theatre, would have seemed to him tasteless,
insipid and of no account; but to attract attention, to cause a
sensation, to be noticed on entering a theatre or a concert hall, was to
him supreme happiness. He did not suspect that many people said when
they saw him:

“They say that he has already run through thirty thousand francs with
her!”

“I believe him to be quite enough of a fool for that! Indeed, he looks
it!”

“What an utterly absurd costume!”

And it was to procure this reputation that young Alfred had run through
more than thirty thousand francs in one year; that was more than half of
the fortune he had inherited. If he continued to live in the same way,
he had not enough for another year; but once started on the path of
folly, some people keep on, not knowing how to stop. The crash which
awaits them, and in which they will involve some too confiding friends,
is there before them, inevitable, if they persist in following the same
road; they know it, and still they go on. Are they fools or knaves? they
necessarily deserve both titles.

The other individual was not so good-looking as Monsieur Alfred de
Saint-Arthur, but he had not his stupid look; indeed, there was in his
eyes a shrewd expression which sometimes turned to mockery. Neither his
trousers nor his coat were so exaggerated as his friend’s, but all the
world did not turn to look at him; he had no fashionable mistress upon
whom he squandered money, but he strove to be on the best terms with the
mistresses of his friends; he did not waste his fortune, because he had
none, and he had not left his place, because he had never had any.

However, as one must needs try, in society, to have some talent, some
profession, or some rank, in default of fortune, Jéricourt had become an
author. He had not stopped to consider whether he had the necessary
vocation and intellect for that; he had said to himself: “I propose to
be an author;” and as one ordinarily effects his purpose by dint of
perseverance and unbounded self-assurance, Jéricourt, by persistently
frequenting the café where the young men who write for the stage
ordinarily gather, had insinuated himself among them, playing billiards
with one, dominoes with another; he had become one of their intimates,
and then had begun to talk of plays, of plots, of original ideas which
he claimed to have had; and when someone would say to him:

“That is old, that subject has already been treated fifty times!” he
would exclaim:

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be treated fifty-one times! A thing that
has succeeded so often will succeed again. It is mere folly to try to do
something new; one risks failure; whereas, by following roads already
marked out, one is certain to arrive without hindrance.”

Jéricourt found people of his opinion; and thus it was that he became an
author by revamping what others had done before him. And he ended by
believing himself to be an inventor, a man of genius, and by making
idiots of the type of his friend Saint-Arthur believe it also. The
number of fools is infinite!

“Well, my pretty flower girl, I must have a wonderful, a stupendous
bouquet!” said Alfred, halting in front of Violette; “it’s for a lady
who knows what’s what, and who has already had the most beautiful
bouquets that are made in Paris,--isn’t that so, Jéricourt?--_Sapristi!_
I haven’t a cigar; Jéricourt, my dear fellow, make me a cigarette, will
you?”

“You don’t like them.”

“Ah! it is true that I have become so accustomed to panatelas--I say!
look at that little woman yonder! She turned around to look at me. If I
weren’t in such a hurry, I’d follow her.”

“Aha! would you be unfaithful to Zizi Dutaillis?”

“Oh! pardieu! a little amourette of a moment.--Make me a
cigarette.--Well, flower girl! you don’t show me anything.”

“Why, monsieur, you see what I have; choose for yourself.”

“Choose for myself! why, all this stuff is horrible! these bouquets are
good for nobody but circus riders! I don’t want any of these. I told you
that I wanted something wonderful, such a bouquet as never yet was
seen.”

“I will make you up one!”

“All right! but hurry. Zizi is waiting for me, and she doesn’t like to
wait; her nerves are all upset when I am late.”

“Here’s your cigarette.”

“Thanks, my boy. Have you fire?”

“Always, when I am before this fascinating flower girl. Pray look at
those eyes! did you ever see anything more alluring?”

“True! for a flower girl’s eyes, they are very fair.”

“And that nose, that mouth, and that cruel air, which would be so
becoming to her if it were not genuine!”

“Ah! mademoiselle is cruel, is she?”

“Alas! yes, my dear Alfred.--Would you believe that for nearly a month I
have been sighing at her feet, and without making any progress?”

“The deuce, my boy, you don’t know how to go about it! You tempt me to
try my hand with the flower girl. If I should undertake it, I will wager
that the affair would go faster,--eh, my girl?”

As he spoke, Alfred tried to take Violette’s arm; but she struck him
across the fingers with a bunch of roses and lilacs that she held; and
as there were some thorns in the bunch, the young dandy made a wry face
as he withdrew his hand.

“_Bigre!_ she has scratched my fingers! Is this flower girl a Lucretia?”

“I told you that she resisted me, and yet you choose to meddle!”

“She plays the prude; but if I had time! I am terribly afraid of being
late. Zizi will be angry; she plays to-night, and she is much more
nervous when she plays! You are coming to dine with us, Jéricourt, are
you not?”

“Impossible.”

“Bah! why impossible?”

“Because I dine with this lovely girl, with the flower girl.--Isn’t it
true, Violette, that you will dine with me to-day?”

“Monsieur, I thought that I answered you the other day in such a way
that you would not give me any more such invitations.”

“My dear love, you are too fascinating to remain virtuous long; why
shouldn’t you give me the preference? I will give you your own
apartment, pretty furniture, pretty dresses; the theatre every evening;
that’s the life that awaits you!”

“I prefer to sell my bouquets, monsieur.”

“That’s absurd! Unless you have some passion that closes your heart to
me, you ought to yield to me.”

“No, monsieur, I feel no sort of obligation to you.”

“Ha! ha! ha! poor Jéricourt! he fails in his suit to a flower girl! That
will make Zizi laugh! I’ll tell her at dinner.--I say, my pretty girl,
don’t make my bouquet all white, please. The other day I offered one
like that to Zizi, and she declared that it looked like a cauliflower.”

“There, monsieur, how is this? Do you like it?”

“Why, yes, it isn’t bad; it has some style! I think that it will produce
an effect.--Come,--Jéricourt, as Mademoiselle Violette refuses to dine
with you, it seems to me that you can accept my invitation. If I don’t
bring you, Zizi will be sulky; she is much livelier when you are there;
that is easily understood, for you make her laugh, you make puns, and
she declares that there is no such thing as a good dinner without puns.”

“I tell you again, Alfred, that Mademoiselle Violette will not be
inexorable; why, I propose to launch her in society, to make her the
fashion, for I have all the small newspapers at my disposal.”

“He is telling you the truth, my girl, and the small newspapers are the
only ones that are read nowadays, for they are much more amusing than
the large ones. For my part, I know nothing better than the
_Tintamarre_! Dieu! the _Tintamarre_; there’s a newspaper that always
drives away the blues! I learn puns from it and I repeat them to Zizi;
but unfortunately I don’t remember them very well, so that she doesn’t
understand them.--Ah! what a beautiful bouquet!--Well, my dear fellow,
will you come?”

And the pretty young man with the light whiskers, holding his enormous
bouquet in one hand, tried with the other to lead away his friend, who,
half leaning over the flower girl’s counter, was gazing at her with his
face close to hers, although she did her utmost to move away from him.

It was at this moment that Chicotin Patatras, who had spied one of his
cronies a few steps from Violette’s booth, ran to him and tripped him
up,--a method of beginning a conversation decidedly fashionable among
street urchins. The friend, taken by surprise, fell upon the sidewalk,
and as he rose, saw Chicotin laughing and making fun of him, and
apparently challenging him to retaliate. He immediately started to run
after him, which was what young Patatras hoped that he would do. When he
saw that his comrade was about to overtake him, he jumped back in such a
way as to collide with the persons who stood in front of Violette’s
booth.

Chicotin had hoped to fall on Jéricourt, but having failed to calculate
the distance accurately, he collided violently with the young dandy,
Alfred de Saint-Arthur. The shock was so sudden and so unexpected by
Alfred, whose back was turned to the passers-by, that he fell forward
with his face against the flower girl’s wares; and as the counter was
not strong enough to hold the weight of his body, it collapsed under the
young man.

Violette uttered a loud exclamation when she saw her flowers scattered
over the concrete, and Monsieur de Saint-Arthur apparently trying to
swim among them.

Jéricourt, taken by surprise by this unexpected mishap, also received a
kick or two from Chicotin, for the latter, still pursued by his comrade,
who finally overtook him, began with him a struggle which was all in
jest, but in which, although they were merely fooling, the young men
dealt each other blows so lustily applied that everybody who was near
them received some.

“Will you stop, or go somewhere else and fight, you clowns?” cried
Jéricourt. “Just look at what you have done! All of the girl’s flowers
are on the ground!”

“Ah! it’s that good-for-nothing Patatras again!” said Violette; “he is
always doing something of the kind; he must always be making trouble
somewhere! It’s outrageous; I am going to complain to the inspector.”

“Oh, I beg pardon, excuse me, Mamzelle Violette,” said Chicotin, rising,
“you must know that I didn’t fall against your stall on purpose. It’s
Chopard’s fault; why did he chase me when I tried to get out of the way
behind your customers?”

“Why did you come and trip me up when I wasn’t saying anything to you?”

“I’ll do it again when I choose, you long _bobêche_!”

“Oh, yes! just come and try! I’ll show you!”

“Sapristi! are you going to begin again, you scoundrels, instead of
picking up these bouquets which you knocked down?”

“But your friend has fallen too, monsieur, and he doesn’t get up!--Help
him! Perhaps he’s hurt himself!”

At these words from Violette, Jéricourt condescended at last to pay some
attention to his companion; with the assistance of Chicotin, he
succeeded, not without difficulty, in placing him on his feet; for
Alfred was almost suffocated; two rosebuds had been forced into each
nostril, and had entered far enough to close them hermetically; and as
he had in addition a bunch of gilly-flowers over his mouth, he could not
breathe at all, and was beginning to turn purple. Once upon his feet, he
opened his mouth as if he proposed to swallow everything in his
neighborhood, and shook his head to try to rid himself of the two
rosebuds, whose thorny stems tickled the lower part of his face
unpleasantly. But he could not succeed; Jéricourt had to pull one of the
stems and Chicotin the other, to uncork his nose. This operation was not
performed without a number of shrieks from Monsieur de Saint-Arthur, but
his nose at last recovered its air current, and everybody’s mind was at
ease.

When the young dandy recovered all his faculties, the thing that
troubled him most was that he had broken one of his suspenders, and that
his trousers on that side were not held in place.

“All sorts of misfortunes at once,” cried Alfred; “I have broken my left
suspender. But who was it, then, who came down on me like a bomb and
pushed me onto that counter?”

“Excuse me, master, my excellency, I did it by accident, and not on
purpose, for I was fooling with Chopard.”

“What, you scoundrel, was it you?--Ah! I recognize you; I have employed
you more than once.”

“Oh! I remember very well! You are one of those generous and
distinguished gentlemen that a man doesn’t forget. I have often opened
your carriage door, master, and you are always with such pretty ladies,
ladies from the theatre, and so well dressed, that everybody looks at
you. Shall I wait at Monsieur Bonvalet’s, master, to see if you want to
send me to find out how far they’ve got in the play?”

“All right, all right, we’ll see. After all, as he didn’t do it on
purpose--And my bouquet, what became of that in the scrimmage?”

“Here it is, monsieur,” said Violette; “luckily nothing happened to it.”

“It’s my broken suspender that worries me most; my trousers are all
creased on that side! I’d give thirty francs for a pair of suspenders.”

“Would you like mine, master?”

“No, thanks! That would look nice!”

“I’ll go and buy you a pair at the druggist’s on Rue du Temple.”

“What does the idiot say?” muttered Jéricourt; “suspenders at a
druggist’s! do you propose to buy them made of marshmallow paste?”

“At all events I can’t stop here any longer,” cried Alfred; “Zizi will
make a horrible row; she will be in an infernal humor; and if she sees
that my trousers are creased, it will be much worse! And she will see
it, for she always looks at them first when I join her; she is so
particular about dress; she said to me once: ‘A man who doesn’t have
morocco straps to his boots shall never step foot inside my
door!’--Well, Jéricourt, are you coming?”

Tall Jéricourt decided at last to go away with his friend; for the
flower girl, busily engaged in picking up her flowers, did not seem
disposed to laugh, and he saw that he must needs abandon the idea of
being listened to for that day at least. So he walked away, arm-in-arm
with Alfred de Saint-Arthur, who, as he walked, did his utmost to hold
his trousers up. When he saw the two young men take their leave,
Chicotin Patatras nodded his head to Georget, who was not very far away,
and who answered with a smile. And Violette, as she tried to replace her
flowers in order upon her counter, did not fail to notice that
pantomime.




V

A CONCIERGE’S LODGE


In a house of respectable appearance on Rue d’Angoulême, about half-past
eleven one evening, the street bell was pulled so violently that it
caused Monsieur Baudoin, the concierge, to leap from his chair, upon
which he was beginning to doze, while his wife Hildegarde took advantage
of his nodding to open a small cupboard and take therefrom a bottle, the
neck of which she proceeded to introduce into her mouth, and took
several swallows of a fluid which she seemed to enjoy greatly.

Baudoin the concierge was a tall, thin man, with a pale face and light
hair, who had passed his fiftieth year, but was still very straight, and
as active as a young man. To his occupation of concierge, he added that
of clerk in a stage office, which kept him only until six o’clock. He
was an honest man, to whom one could fearlessly entrust his house and
his treasure; he did promptly whatever he was ordered to do, unless he
did not fully understand; but in that case it was not safe to reproach
him, for Baudoin lost his temper very readily, having an immeasurable
self-esteem and claiming that he never made a mistake. When he did lose
his temper, Baudoin swore like a trooper, and turned as red as a
turkey-cock.

Hildegarde, the concierge’s wife, was two or three years older than her
husband; she had once been pretty and sentimental; she was not very well
preserved, and her inclination to sentiment having with age become
diverted to brandy, Madame Baudoin had neglected herself considerably;
there was a deplorable carelessness in her dress, which resulted in
nothing ever being in place. Baudoin, who was always neat and decently
dressed, often reproached his wife for her heedlessness in that respect,
and as he had also discovered her unlucky fondness for liquor, he
sometimes added to his reproaches lessons of an impressive sort, which
made Hildegarde bellow loudly, and promise never to give way again to
her miserable failing; but she never failed to forget that promise,
whenever she thought that her husband would know nothing about it.

Moreover, Madame Baudoin was a genuine type of concierge: talkative,
inquisitive, gossiping, scandal-loving, incautious, not evil-minded at
bottom, but capable of setting the whole quarter at odds with remarks
made without ill-intent. Her husband often scolded her for it; but
“what’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh!”

At the jingling of the bell, and the somersault performed by her
husband, Hildegarde, bewildered, and realizing that she had not time to
replace the bottle of brandy in the cupboard, hastily put it on the
floor between her feet, and then sat down, thus having her dear bottle
in the place where the open air tradeswomen put their foot-warmers.

“Didn’t someone ring?” said Baudoin, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes, my dear, yes, someone certainly did!” replied his wife, without
moving from her chair.

“Well, then, draw the cord, Hildegarde; you’re right near it.”

“You can draw it much easier yourself, my dear; you have only to put out
your arm and lean forward a bit.”

“Look here, why won’t you pull the cord, when you’re right beside it?
What sort of way is that to behave?”

“Why--why, you see I pulled it just now when the tenant of the first
floor came in, so it’s your turn.”

“Ah! so this is a new idea you’ve got into your head! Madame is afraid
that she will pull the cord oftener than I, who have just come in, all
tired and out of breath after running about Paris all day! What a lazy
hussy!”

“Mon Dieu! is it possible for a man to be as ugly as this to his wife!
to be so unwilling to do anything for her! Ah! Monsieur Baudoin, how you
have changed!”

While this little dialogue was taking place between the couple employed
to take care of the house, the person who had rung remained at the door,
which is rarely pleasing when one returns home at night. A second peal
at the bell, much more violent than the first, announced that he was
losing patience.

Baudoin decided to pull the cord, but as he did so he said to his wife:

“Ah! _bigre!_ you shall pay for this, Hildegarde! by all that’s good! I
promise you that.”

Hildegarde made no reply, but continued to sit over her bottle. Someone
came in and closed the street door; and soon a man appeared at the
concierge’s lodge, and said curtly:

“Give me my light.”

“Oh! yes, Monsieur Malberg; this minute, Monsieur Malberg.--Hildegarde,
just take Monsieur Malberg’s candlestick from the cupboard by you, light
it at our lamp, or rather light it with a match, for the chimney of our
lamp is cracked and it might break in your hand.--You are just from the
theatre, I suppose, Monsieur Malberg? They say that they are giving a
fine play there just now; I don’t know which theatre, but no matter, it
seems that it’s fine, all the same! You have been to see it, of course?”

“I have been where I chose to go, and it is none of your business,”
replied the tenant, in a tone which did not invite further conversation.
“Well! what about my light? Are you going to give it to me to-night? or
do you intend to keep me waiting here as long as you did in the street?”

“What, Hildegarde, haven’t you lighted Monsieur Malberg’s light yet?
Look here, what are you about? God forgive me, Monsieur Malberg, but I
believe that my wife is getting deaf or idiotic; something’s the matter
with her to-night; it isn’t possible--yes, she may have been tippling.
You know her unlucky failing, which will lead her to perdition! and it
isn’t for lack of my trying to correct it by every means that I can
think of.”

Whereupon Hildegarde, who had her reasons for not stirring from her
chair, made haste to reply:

“Oh, yes! the means you use are very nice! I advise you to boast of
them; you ought to be ashamed of them! a man with an education, who has
clerks under him, in an office, to raise his hand to his wife! Yes,
Monsieur Malberg, I don’t blush to confess that Monsieur Baudoin has the
baseness to strike me! that’s a nice thing to do, ain’t it?”

But the man to whom these questions were addressed, observing that no
one thought of giving him his light, pushed open the door of the lodge,
took his candlestick, lighted the candle with a piece of paper, and went
upstairs without another word to the concierge and his wife, who
continued their conversation.

“Well, Hildegarde, do you see what you’ve done? Here’s Monsieur Malberg
had to light his candle himself! what will he think of us?”

“Oh! I don’t care what he thinks! he’s an agreeable man, that tenant! a
fellow who never talks, who hardly answers when you speak to him, and
always in a short, surly tone, as if he was always angry!”

“It is true that he seldom laughs; but still perhaps that’s his nature;
there are people who enjoy being dismal. However, he’s a man who
occupies an apartment at eleven hundred francs, and who pays on the dot,
without having to be reminded that it is rent day, and who has very
handsome furniture, and mirrors in every room, so that the proprietor
has a very high regard for him.”

“Oh! I don’t say that he’s a vagabond! but why doesn’t he keep a maid,
who’d come to our lodge in the evening and talk, as decent people always
do, instead of that miserable blackamoor, that yellow negro, who doesn’t
know how to do anything but wax his floor and polish his boots? as if
you could call that a servant! He ought to hire me to do his housework;
that’s my line!”

“You forget, Hildegarde, that the landlord doesn’t want you to do
housework. Of course, if you went away while I am at my office, there
wouldn’t be anybody but the cat to look after the lodge and answer
questions!”

“A fine job this is, where the concierge’s wife isn’t allowed to do
housework! That was my only ambition.”

“Oh, yes! the fact is that you were the cause of our being discharged
from the lodge we had before this, because you did housework for the men
on the fourth floor and drank all their liquor.”

“That isn’t true, it’s a slander!”

“Let’s not go back to that. I am mortified that Monsieur Malberg had to
light his candle himself; it’s a stain upon our good name.”

“Well then, you ought to have lighted it for him, if you have that on
your conscience!”

“Hold your tongue, Hildegarde; you’re very unreasonable to-night, you
have something bad to say about everybody. You find fault because
Monsieur Malberg has a yellow negro to work for him, and you don’t seem
to know that that is very distinguished. Swell people always have
colored servants in their employ.”

“It’s a miserable fashion. But still, if that miserable Pingo or
Ponceau--I never know what his name is--was only agreeable.”

“Pongo!”

“Oh! what a dog of a name! Pongo! But he never talks, the blackamoor; or
else he talks to himself, and says things that I don’t understand; I
believe that he talks Morocco!”

“Come, Hildegarde, it’s almost twelve o’clock; go to bed, that’s the
best thing you can do.”

“Everybody hasn’t come in.”

“Yes they have, everybody except little Georget, who lives up under the
roof, with his mother.--By the way, how is the poor woman to-day?”

“Not very well; she’s had more fainting fits this afternoon, and I
thought she was going _to put out her gas_.”

“And her son hasn’t come home, at midnight! that’s what I call a
ne’er-do-well, a downright scamp! Hildegarde, heaven didn’t give us any
children, and I give thanks for it in my heart; because they aren’t
always honey for parents, and often absinthe rules the roost, as I see
in the case of Mère Georget!”

“Absinthe--absinthe--I don’t hate that! it helps the digestion!”

“Oh! bless my soul! you don’t hate any liquid; but I know that absinthe
is bad for the health; I’ve heard some of the clerks at the office
talking about two talented actors who played at the theatre and who put
an end to themselves with absinthe; without counting several others who
are in a fair way to do the same thing!”

“Bah! that’s all nonsense!”

“Come, Hildegarde, go to bed; I will come in a little while; and if
little Georget isn’t in at the quarter, I will leave him outside; I
can’t waste my oil for anyone who never makes it up to me. Well, you
don’t move; are you fastened to your chair to-night?”

“Go to bed first, Baudoin; I’ll sit up for the young man, and put the
lodge in order.”

“You know very well that I am not in the habit of going to bed before
you. I see your scheme: you will wait until I am asleep and then go to
the cupboard to say a word or two to the bottle!”

“Oh! the idea of my going to the cupboard! It’s much more likely to be
you, for you like brandy too.”

“I like it reasonably, like a man with some self-respect, who doesn’t
choose to make a brute of himself.--Hildegarde, go to bed.”

“I don’t feel sleepy.”

“Hildegarde, we are going to have trouble! Will you go to bed at once?”

“You pester me----”

“Hildegarde, I shall be compelled to resort to severe means. Why, you
certainly are glued to your chair; this isn’t natural, I suspect some
trick. Ah! I see! I’ll bet that the bottle isn’t in the cupboard.”

And Baudoin rose to go to the cupboard, but as his wife was sitting in
front of it and did not move, he pushed her roughly aside, whereupon
she reeled, and almost instantly uttered a cry of distress so
heartrending that her husband feared that he had hurt her. But it was
not Hildegarde who was hurt, it was the bottle under her skirts, which
she had involuntarily upset, and which had broken, overflowing the lodge
with all the liquor which it contained.

“I say! what’s all this?” cried Baudoin, when he found a stream flowing
between his feet; but soon the odor which spread through the room left
him in no doubt as to the identity of the liquid.

“It is brandy; she had the bottle under her skirt; what a vile trick!”

“Yes, and you made me break it! that’s the worst of it, you brute! Such
splendid brandy!”

“Hildegarde, you persist in your debauchery; I am going to give you a
taste of the broomstick.”

“Touch me if you dare! I’ll call the watch! I’ll make a disturbance in
the house!”

Meanwhile Baudoin, who was in the habit of keeping his promises, had
gone to fetch the broomstick. At that moment, the bell at the street
door rang, and this time the woman made haste to open, hoping that it
was somebody who would protect her.

It was Georget, the young messenger of the flower market, who entered
the house, and in another instant the porter’s lodge, just as Baudoin
raised his broomstick over the head of his wife, who ran behind the
young man, crying:

“Oh! monsieur, save an unfortunate woman, whose husband is trying to
murder her!”

“Sapristi! how strong it smells of brandy here!” said Georget, sniffing;
then, leaping upon the broomstick which the concierge held, he seized it
with both hands. But Baudoin held on, he would not let go, and a
struggle began between him and the young messenger, remarkably like the
battles around the flag, which we see in the war plays at the boulevard
theatres; only in this case the flag was a broomstick and the combatants
were not in uniform.

The struggle continued for some time, on nearly even terms; Baudoin was
stronger and little Georget more active. The concierge’s wife paid no
heed to the contestants; she had taken a small sponge, and was using it
to soak up the brandy from the floor; and when it was well saturated,
she put it to her lips.

Suddenly the broomstick broke, each of the contestants fell backward,
and the battle was at an end. Finding himself then on a level with
Madame Baudoin, who was kneeling on the floor with her body bent
forward, still soaking and sucking her sponge, Georget could not
restrain a burst of laughter; and the concierge, who was inclined at
first to belabor his wife with what remained of his broomstick, suddenly
decided to lie down on the floor, and to lap up the brandy with his
tongue as thirsty dogs lap up the water in the gutter.




VI

THE GENTLEMAN OF THE THIRD FLOOR


Georget left Monsieur and Madame Baudoin fighting over the remains of
the brandy with sponge and tongue, and lighted one of the small, thin
candles which are rolled up like small rockets and which are sold for
one or two sous at the grocer’s. Then running quickly up six flights of
stairs, he reached a small door in which the key had been left; poor
people are not suspicious, especially as they have nothing which is
worth the trouble of stealing.

The young messenger walked through a small room, which received no light
except through a little round window, in which room was a cot bed
supplied with a very thin mattress and with an old window curtain which
served as bedclothes. This was Georget’s bedroom; but he did not stop
there. Opening the door at the end of the room, and trying to make no
noise, he entered another much larger one, where there was a little
window. This room, although the walls sloped, was large enough to
contain a bed surrounded by white curtains, an old mahogany bureau, a
white wood table, a small sideboard, several chairs, and on the mantel a
tiny mirror surrounded by a branch of consecrated boxwood. All this was
more than modest, but it was neat and clean; it indicated not
destitution, but poverty.

Georget was walking very softly, concealing his light with his right
hand, when he heard a feeble voice from the bed:

“Is that you, Georget?”

“Yes, mother, it’s I. So you’re not asleep?”

“No, I haven’t been able to go to sleep, I don’t know why.”

“It must be because you are sicker; and you have not been well for
several days, although you didn’t admit it to me.”

“It’s nothing, just the lumbago, it will soon be gone. If you would just
give me something to drink, my dear, for I am very thirsty.”

“Yes, mother, in a minute. Wait until I light your candle and put out
this tallow thing of mine which smells worse than thirty-six lamps.”

After lighting a bit of candle stuck in a bottle, Georget approached his
mother’s bed.

“Come, now you must tell me where your medicine is. But gracious heaven,
how red your face is, mother! and black circles round your eyes! Are you
worse?”

“Why, no, it is the heat of the bed that does that.”

“Give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse. Oh! how hot your hand
is! You are feverish, and very feverish too, I am sure.”

“Nonsense, as if you knew anything about it.”

“Oh! yes I do; you must have pain somewhere.”

“No, I am not in pain.”

“The first thing in the morning I’ll fetch a doctor.”

“I don’t want you to; what’s the use of a doctor, just because one has a
little fever; it will go away all right without him!”

“Where is your drink?”

“I thought I wouldn’t make any; I prefer water, I like it better.”

“Water, when one is feverish! Why, you didn’t do right! If I did such a
thing, you’d scold me and say that I acted like a child, and you would
be right. However, tell me where the sugar is; where do you keep the
sugar, mother?”

“Sugar! I don’t want any; it nauseates me; I prefer clear water.”

“Water without sugar, when one is as burning hot as you are! I never
heard of such a thing! You can’t mean it! Do you want to kill yourself?
I am going to give you some sweetened water, but I must heat it; it’s
better so.”

“Oh, no! no!”

“I say yes; I will take care of you better than you do yourself. Come,
where is the sugar? where is the coal?”

And Georget ran all about the room, fumbling over all the furniture,
opening all the closets, looking in every corner, but he found nothing.
Thereupon a bright light broke upon his mind. He stopped in the middle
of the room, threw his cap on the floor, and cried in a tone of deep
distress:

“Ah! I understand everything now! You didn’t make yourself any drink,
because you had no coal nor charcoal! You don’t want any sugar, because
you haven’t a single particle of it here! Yes, yes, that is it! You are
out of everything! You haven’t any money either, I am sure! and I,
instead of trying to earn some, so that you might have what you need,
why, I do nothing at all! I pass my day loafing, and at night I go to
the theatre with Patatras, who absolutely insisted on treating me. I go
about enjoying myself when my mother is sick, and I come home without a
sou, without a single piece of money; and I haven’t anything to buy her
what might cure her! Ah! I am a wicked son, a good-for-nothing! Forgive
me, mother, forgive me; I won’t do so any more! I will work, I swear to
you that I will work now!”

And the young fellow fell on his knees beside his mother’s bed; and the
poor mother forgot her suffering, and tried only to comfort her son.

“What are you talking about, Georget? You, a good-for-nothing! Why, you
don’t mean that, my boy! Have I ever complained of your conduct?”

“Oh! I know very well that you never complain; you are too good!”

“You have been amusing yourself a little to-day; well, my boy, there’s
no harm in that; you must enjoy yourself while you’re young. Your friend
Chicotin took you to the theatre; the theatre is a decent amusement; it
is much better than going to the wine shop; you don’t make evil
acquaintances there, or destroy your health with unhealthy stuff that
they give you for wine. You haven’t earned anything to-day--that is too
bad, but to-morrow you will work, and you will be happier!”

“To-morrow! to-morrow! but you have had nothing to drink this evening;
you haven’t any sugar; and what will you take to quench your thirst
to-night? cold water, I suppose?”

“I am going to try to sleep; when one is asleep, one doesn’t need to
drink.”

“But when you wake in the morning, what shall I give you? for you have
no money here, nothing at all; isn’t that so, mother?”

“Dear me, yes, my dear; for unfortunately I haven’t been able to work
for a week; my sight has been all blurred!”

“Oh! you work too much, when you ought to rest.”

“Why so, Georget? I am not old enough yet to give up work, I am only
fifty-four! If a body was good for nothing at that age, it would be a
great pity!”

“I know that you’re not old, but still your health isn’t very good, and
then you didn’t use to need to work for your living.”

“Oh! my dear, we must never say such things as that, and sigh over the
past! If one has been happy, so much the better; if one is so no longer,
so much the worse; regrets don’t help and only make our position worse!”

“All this doesn’t give you any nice, hot, sweet drink, and that is what
you must have!”

“Don’t despair, we are not altogether without resources. You know that I
have--your father’s watch; and if it is absolutely necessary, why----”

“What’s that you say! my father’s watch, which you think so much of! the
only thing of his that you have! part with that? No, I won’t have it.
Wait--suppose I should go and stand in front of some theatre?”

“What an idea! They are all over, all closed at this time of night.”

“Never mind; in front of a restaurant, I may still get something to do.”

“I don’t want you to go out; it’s too late.”

“Well then, in the house; pardi! sugar and coal--people lend each other
such things as that. Don’t be impatient, mother, I will come right
back.”

“No, Georget, I don’t want you to ask the neighbors; don’t, I beg you!”

But Georget was not listening to his mother; he had already relighted
his tallow-dip and hurried from the room. When he reached the landing,
the young man stopped, for he was uncertain to whom he should apply for
the loan which he wished to obtain; but he did not hesitate long. He ran
down the stairs three or four at a time, and did not stop until he
reached the ground floor and knocked at the concierge’s lodge, saying to
himself:

“Baudoin and his wife are not unkind; they dispute together, and fight
sometimes, but they haven’t bad hearts; they won’t refuse me. Besides,
it is only a loan, I will return it all.”

But Georget forgot that he had left the concierge and his wife engaged
in an occupation which was likely to plunge them into a profound slumber
ere long. In fact, after sucking and lapping brandy for some time, the
husband and wife had felt such an intense longing to sleep, that they
had hardly strength enough to reach their bed; and as the sleep caused
by intoxication is never light, Monsieur and Madame Baudoin did not hear
the knocking at their door; one might have fired a cannon under their
noses, and they would simply have said: “God bless you!”

Weary of knocking to no purpose, Georget walked away from the lodge,
murmuring:

“Those concierges are regular beer kegs; I shall never succeed in waking
them, and I might as well give it up. Let me see, where can I apply? on
the first floor? The whole floor is occupied by a family of English
people, who hardly understand what you say to them and who don’t look
very pleasant; I should not be well received there, they would not be
able to understand what I said. On the second floor is a very pretty,
very stylish lady, who receives fine gentlemen, but who refuses to open
her door when she has company; her maid told me so the other day,--those
are her orders. On the third,--ah! that is the gentleman that they call
the _Bear_ in the house, because he never talks with anybody, never
receives any visitors, and hardly answers when you speak to him. Much
use there would be in trying to borrow sugar and charcoal of that man!
and still, if I thought that his black man would open the door;--but
no, Pongo sleeps so sound that he never hears his master come home. So
it would be the gentleman himself who would open the door, and he would
shut it in my face without answering me. I don’t even dare to try!--On
the fourth, on one side is an old woman, so timid that she will never
open her door after dusk; on the other, a student; but he has gone into
the country. And at the top, opposite us, no one; the room is to let.
Mon Dieu! whom shall I apply to then, if among all these people I can
see no hope of help for my poor mother, who has a high fever and no
cooling draft to lessen her suffering? Ah! Chicotin was quite right to
say that I am a fool to be in love, that I am too young. Mamzelle
Violette makes me forget my mother, my duty, my work. To think that I
have done nothing to-day! that I came home without a sou when I knew
that my mother was sick! Oh, I am a miserable, heartless villain! I
shall never forgive myself!”

As he said this, Georget went slowly upstairs, stopping frequently
because he was weeping; and he had stopped again, and rested his head
against the wall, to sob at his ease, when a door opened within two
steps of him.

He was then on the landing of the third floor, and it was Monsieur
Malberg who stood before him. When he saw the young messenger, who still
had the look of a mere boy, beating his head against the wall, and
giving free vent to his sobs, the gentleman who was called the Bear, and
who in fact had a rather stern expression and a rather rough voice,
walked toward Georget and asked:

“What are you doing here?”

“Well! monsieur, you see, I am crying, I am unhappy.”

“And why are you crying?”

“Because my mother is sick, and because she has nothing that might help
her; because I didn’t work to-day, and came home to the house without a
sou; because I am a heartless wretch, and I deserve to be beaten!”

“Well, do you think that if you beat your head against the wall that
that will help your mother?”

“Oh! no, monsieur! but when a fellow doesn’t know which way to turn! I
went down and knocked at the concierge’s door; I wanted to borrow a
little sugar and some charcoal of them; but they didn’t answer; I
suppose they sleep too sound!”

“So you live in the house, do you?”

“Yes, monsieur, at the top, under the eaves; I live there with my
mother, who is the widow of my father, Pierre Brunoy, who was a soldier,
a non-commissioned officer, who left the service on account of a wound.
Oh! he was a fine man, was my father! He was a draughts-man, he had lots
of talent, and he used to make designs for ladies who embroider; we were
happy then; but he died. My mother undertook to keep a little smallwares
shop, to earn enough to educate me; but she didn’t succeed, for no one
paid her. Then, as she works very well on linen, she began to work for
people, and I, knowing that I ought to help mother, whose health isn’t
very good, and who has weak eyes, I said to myself: ‘I will be a
messenger, for I could never find a place, although I can read and write
and figure; or else I should have to work without pay for a long while
and I must earn money right away to help mother.’--So I started in as a
messenger; for there isn’t any foolish trade, so I was
told;--and--that’s all, monsieur.”

The gentleman of the third floor listened attentively to Georget, and
when he had finished, said to him:

“Come with me.”

“Where, monsieur?”

“Into my room, of course.”

“What for, monsieur?”

“You will see; come.”

The youth placed his tallow-dip on the floor, and followed the
gentleman; his heart was still heavy, for he didn’t understand how the
person who occupied the handsome apartment on the third floor could need
his services so late. Monsieur Malberg passed through a reception room
very carefully polished, and into a beautiful dining-room. There he
stopped, opened a large sideboard, took out a loaf of sugar, which was
hardly touched, and placed it in Georget’s hand, saying:

“Take this!”

The poor boy looked at him with an almost dazed expression, and
murmured:

“What is this, monsieur?”

“Don’t you see that it is sugar?”

“Sugar, oh, yes! but this great loaf,--who’s all this for?”

“For your mother, of course! Didn’t you tell me that she hadn’t any and
that she was sick?”

“Oh! is it possible, monsieur, that you are so kind as--but this is too
much, monsieur, too much.”

“Hush, and come with me.”

This time Monsieur Malberg went into his kitchen, where Georget followed
him, holding the loaf of sugar in his arms. The gentleman pointed to a
large box without a cover, which stood under the stove, saying:

“Take that box; there’s charcoal in it.”

“Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! How can I thank you for----”

“It isn’t worth while, I don’t like thanks; take this box, I say.”

“Yes, monsieur, but be sure--I will return all this; pray believe me.
Oh! I will work to pay my debt.”

“Very well, very well! By the way, wait; I have some linden leaves here,
and some mallow; perhaps they will be good for your mother, and you
haven’t any in your room, I suppose?”

“No, I think not, monsieur.”

“Well, I’ll give you some then; come.”

Monsieur Malberg returned to his dining-room. Georget still followed
him, holding under one arm the loaf of sugar, and under the other the
box filled with charcoal. The gentleman opened the drawer of a small
piece of furniture, took out several paper bags, looked to see what they
contained, put two of them aside, and was about to give them to Georget,
when he stopped as if a sudden thought had struck him, and left the
dining-room, saying:

“I will return in a moment; what I want isn’t there; wait here.”

The young messenger was careful not to stir; he was so pleased that he
wondered whether he was not the play-thing of a dream; but he for whom
he was waiting soon returned, bringing several small packages of herbs,
saying:

“Here are some things which may be good for your mother,--linden, orange
leaves, mallow and violet; take them all, or rather let me put them in
your pocket, for you have no hand free.”

“Oh, monsieur! excuse me for the trouble I put you to. Mon Dieu! you are
too kind! I will pay you for this, monsieur; for we are not beggars, we
don’t ask alms, and I should be sorry for you to have that idea of us.”

“Very good! Your mother is sick and may need you; don’t leave her alone
any longer.”

“Yes, monsieur, you are right; my poor mother, she will be so happy,
so--so--Thanks, monsieur, oh, thanks a thousand times! Remember that I
am always here day and night, at your service.”

“I will remember; but go.”

And the gentleman pushed Georget before him, so that he soon found
himself on the landing once more. The door of the apartment closed, and
he reascended the staircase as quickly as he could, with his box of
charcoal, his loaf of sugar, and his tallow-dip still lighted.

At last he reached his room; this time he was not afraid of making a
noise when he went in; he was too happy not to wish to tell his mother
about it; but she was not asleep, and she gazed in amazement at her son
when he danced into the room, and placed the loaf of sugar on her bed,
crying:

“There, mother; you shall not drink plain cold water any more! Here is
sugar, here is charcoal, and in my pocket I have half a dozen herbs in
leaves. Ah! what luck! you will be cured right away! I can nurse you
nicely now.”

“What does this mean, my dear? where did you get all these things? You
hadn’t a sou just now. Explain yourself, Georget, I insist.”

“Why, yes, yes, never fear, I am going to tell you the whole story; but
let me light the stove first, and then, while I blow my charcoal, I will
tell you how Providence came to our assistance. Where is the stove? Ah!
there it is. This will light very quickly, I know, although the bellows
isn’t any too good.”

“Did you get all these things in the house, my son?”

“Yes, mother; you see, first of all, I went down to borrow from the
concierge, Monsieur Baudoin; but it wasn’t any use for me to knock at
their door, I couldn’t wake them, they’re worse than deaf people. So
then I was coming up again in very low spirits, indeed, I believe I was
crying, when the door on the third landing opened, and the gentleman who
lives there came out to me. Oh! this thing proves, mother, that people
very often say foolish things, or that it’s very wrong to judge a
person by his appearance. For that gentleman that they call the Bear,
that gentleman that never speaks to anybody, and that everybody makes
stupid jokes about, why, he took me into his room, and gave me all these
things for you, because I told him that you were sick; and he didn’t
even let me thank him!--Ah! you miserable charcoal! you’ve got to burn!
Now I am going to put some water over the fire.”

“But, my dear, this is an enormous loaf of sugar, and it is almost
whole; you ought not to have borrowed so much as this.”

“As if that gentleman would listen to me! He says: ‘Take this!’ and if
you try to remonstrate, he shouts: ‘Hold your tongue!’ and it’s
impossible to prevent him from doing what he wants to.--Ah! my fire is
going at last!”

“But this Monsieur Malberg--for the gentleman of the third floor is
named Malberg--I have never met him; what sort of looking man is he,
Georget? You must have had a good look at him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes! mother; why, he’s a man neither young nor old. At first sight,
I am sure that you would take him to be older than he really is, because
when a person never laughs, that makes him look older. He may be
somewhat over fifty years old; his face is not ugly, not by any means,
but his features have a sort of stern expression; his eyes are always
gloomy and melancholy, and there are great wrinkles on his brow; his
eyebrows are heavy, and his hair must have been black, but it’s a
little gray now. When he fixes his great brown eyes on you, it frightens
you; and yet I got used to them, for his expression is neither unkind
nor contemptuous; it’s--I don’t know just how to describe it--it’s sort
of compassionate, or sorrowful; and his voice, which sounds harsh at
first, is much less so when he’s talked to you for some time. You see,
mother, that gentleman isn’t like most people; oh, no! he makes you
respect him, and it comes natural to obey him, and you don’t dare to say
anything.”

“Really, my dear, you make me long to know this gentleman; when I am
able to go out, I shall go to thank him. And did you tell him----”

“Just how we are placed, what we used to be, and what father did. Yes, I
told him everything. Did I do wrong?”

“No, my boy, we have done nothing which we need to be ashamed of or to
conceal.”

“Ah! my water is boiling; now I am going to make you some herb tea,
mother; which would you rather have?”

“Why, tell me first what you have in your pocket.”

“Wait and I’ll show you; I have a whole lot of bundles! Here, see what
this is.”

“Violet.”

“And this?”

“Linden leaves.”

“And--and--well! here’s something else now!”

“What’s the matter, Georget? Have you lost something?”

“Lost! oh, no! not by any means, mother! What I have just found in my
pocket certainly wasn’t there before! I am sure of that.”

“Why, what have you found in your pocket?”

“Here, look, mother!”

And the young messenger tossed upon the good woman’s bed four five-franc
pieces.

“Twenty francs, Georget! twenty francs! What does this mean? where did
you get all that money, my son?”

“I haven’t any idea, mother; and I am very sure that I didn’t have it
when I came home. I didn’t have a sou.”

“But this money didn’t get into your pocket of itself. Answer me,
Georget, and above all, don’t lie.”

“Mon Dieu! how you say that, mother! Do you suppose that I am capable of
having stolen this money from someone, I should like to know?”

“No, my dear, I do not suppose that my son, that the child of my honest
Brunoy, would ever do a wicked action; but I have always carefully
preserved your father’s watch, and some time, without my knowledge, to
help me, you might have----”

“Pawned papa’s watch! Oh! never! I’d rather pawn myself! but wait,
mother; I remember now; yes, that must have been it.”

“What? tell me.”

“That gentleman on the third floor, when I had the loaf of sugar and the
box of charcoal in my arms, insisted on putting all these little
bundles of dried leaves in my pocket himself; and that’s the way he
stuffed these five-franc pieces into my pocket! Oh! I am sure of it now!
for he went into his bedroom alone, to get the money, no doubt. It was
him, mother, it was him; indeed, who else could have given me all this?”

“You are right, Georget, it can’t have been anybody else; people who
like to do good, think of everything, and it seems that he is very kind,
this Bear!”

“Yes, indeed, he is kind, but I shall not keep his money. I will work
to-morrow, and earn some; and he has put us under enough obligation by
lending us sugar and charcoal. Mother, we mustn’t keep these twenty
francs that he slipped into my pocket so slyly, so that I could not
thank him, must we? But still, it was very nice of him, all the same; he
isn’t like other people, that gentleman! I’ll bet that when he tosses a
piece of money to a poor man, he doesn’t try to make it ring on the
sidewalk when it falls.”

“No, my dear, we mustn’t keep the twenty francs, for it is quite a large
sum, and it would be too hard to repay it.”

“I am going to take it back to the gentleman right away.”

“Oh! it must be quite late now; Monsieur Malberg has gone to bed, no
doubt, and is probably asleep; if you wake him up, he won’t like it.
Wait till morning, and when he’s up, you can take the money back to him,
and thank him again for both of us.”

“After all, you are right, mother; it will be better for me to let the
gentleman sleep, who has helped me to cure you. I will go to-morrow
morning, when his negro is up.--But the water is still boiling; give me
what I need for your tea.”

The invalid chose one of the herbs. Georget soon made the tea and
carried his mother a cup smoking hot and well sweetened; and when she
had drunk it, he filled the cup again and placed it on the table by the
bed.

“If you are thirsty again in the night,” he said, “you must drink this;
it will be all ready; now try to go to sleep.”

“Yes, my dear, but it seems to me that I feel better already.”

“Well! mother; it is always like that; when a person has all that he
needs to get well, then the disease must go.”

“Oh! not always, my boy, for in that case rich people would never be
sick; but the thing that relieves one is contentment, happiness. It
requires so little to make poor people happy! and what has happened to
us this evening is real good fortune.”

“Oh, yes! it is a kind of good fortune that the rich do not know, but
that they can confer on others; and that must be a great pleasure
too.--Good-night, mother; if you need anything, call me.”




VII

A DIFFICULT ERRAND


The next day, before six o’clock, Georget was up and dressed; he went
first to inquire concerning his mother’s health; the invalid had slept,
and felt better, although she was still too weak to rise. She smiled as
she said:

“Up already, my dear?”

“I must earn a lot of money to-day, mother, in order to bring you all
that you need.”

“But I need nothing, as I have the material for making herb tea.”

“Oh! nobody knows! if you get better, perhaps a little beef soup won’t
be a bad thing for you. When a fellow is out on the boulevard early, he
is more apt to find work. There are maids who have bundles to send,
people who have to go into the country and are looking for a cab----”

“Poor Georget! what a miserable trade yours is! Knowing how to write and
figure as you do, you ought to have found a place in some office, or a
clerkship in some shop.”

“Oh, yes! and wait a year or two before earning any kind of a salary!
Don’t think about that any more, mother; I am very happy as I am! A
clerk! shut up all day in an office! oh! how sick I should get of that!
then I should never see her!”

“Who is it that you’d never see, my child?”

Georget blushed, but made haste to reply:

“I mean that I shouldn’t see you during the day, whenever I wanted to.
By the way, mother, I must go to see the gentleman on the third floor,
the gentleman who is so kind, although he doesn’t show it. I am going to
return his twenty francs.”

“Isn’t it a little too early? He isn’t up yet, probably.”

“Oh! I am very sure that he gets up early; he isn’t one of the kind to
coddle himself. Anyway, I’ll ask his valet, that mulatto who’s such a
strange creature, they say.”

“Go, my dear, and thank the gentleman from me, until I can do it
myself.”

Georget cast a glance at the mirror to make sure that nothing was
lacking in his costume. When a man is in love, he becomes particular
about his looks, and Georget would have been very glad to please the
pretty flower girl of the Château d’Eau, who seemed to look upon him as
a child; that distressed the poor boy, he was sorry that he was not at
least twenty years old, because he thought that then she would pay more
attention to him. For we are never content with the passage of time;
when we are young, we think that it doesn’t move fast enough; later, we
complain because it moves too fast. And yet we know that the wisest
course is to take it as it comes; probably we are not often wise, as we
are always growling about it.

Georget went down to the third floor, and rang softly at Monsieur
Malberg’s door; a very dark mulatto, whose hair age had not yet turned
white, and who spoke French very well for a colored man, and very ill
for a Parisian, opened the door and recognized the young messenger whom
he had met sometimes on the stairs.

“Hullo! it’s Monsieur Georget. Morning, Monsieur Georget! What you come
here for so early?”

“Monsieur Pongo, I would like to speak to your master, Monsieur
Malberg.”

“Oh! master not up yet, he still sleep; I get up sooner, to tidy the
room, rub floor here in the morning without waking master.”

“If he is still asleep, I will wait.”

“Yes, you sit down on a nice little chair, like this.”

“Thanks, Monsieur Pongo; I hope I am not in your way; go on with your
work.”

“Yes, yes, then I go very soft and see if monsieur still sleep.”

The mulatto went into another room. Georget sat down and waited. After a
few moments he heard voices in the next room and supposed that Monsieur
Malberg was awake. But still he was left alone, nobody came, and
Georget, beginning to be impatient, coughed, walked about the room and
stole softly to the door, which was ajar. He was surprised to find that
the mulatto was alone, but that as he did his work, he kept up a steady
conversation with all the furniture and other objects in the study,
which to him were people to whom he gave names, according to the custom
of the people of his country.

“You stay there, Broubrou!” said Pongo to a tall Voltaire easy-chair.
“You all right, you satisfied, all brushed, all cleaned, all ready for
master to use, unless he take Babo, the little horsehair chair. Oh!
Babo, you’d be mighty pleased if master took you instead of Madame
Broubrou! she take up much more room.--There! now you all cleaned, well
rubbed, good ‘nough to eat.--But I forget Zima; where you hide yourself,
Zima? oh! no good for you to hide yourself, I know all right how to find
you.”

And the mulatto looked in every corner of the room, and at last
succeeded in finding a small bamboo cane with a gilt head. It was that
cane to which Pongo had given the name of Zima. He took it up and shook
it impatiently, muttering:

“Ah! Mamzelle Zima, you try to make fun of Pongo and keep out of sight a
long time. Suppose me cross and not rub you head to make you shine, how
you like that, eh, Mamzelle Zima?”

At this point, the scene between the mulatto and the cane was
interrupted by shouts of laughter. They came from Georget, who, not
being used to the customs of Africa, had been unable to restrain longer
the desire to laugh, caused by the faithful Pongo’s monologue. He turned
when he heard the laughter, and seeing the youth, began to laugh too,
and, cane in hand, to take several steps of a strange dance which
recalled the famous dance of the _Cocos,_ performed in all the
melodramas in which negroes are introduced.

A ring at the bell interrupted this extemporaneous ballet; Pongo dropped
Mademoiselle Zima, and left the study, saying:

“That’s master, he ring for me; he awake, I go tell him that you
waiting.”

A few moments later the mulatto returned, and ushered Georget into
Monsieur Malberg’s bedroom; that gentleman was enveloped in an ample
dressing-gown and held a newspaper, which he seemed to be reading.

He glanced at Georget, who remained bashfully in the doorway of the
room, twisting his cap about in his hands.

“It’s you, is it, young man? What do you want of me so early in the
morning? Is your mother sicker?”

“Oh, no! thanks to heaven and to you, monsieur! But I have come because
I found this twenty francs in the pocket in which monsieur was kind
enough to put some herbs for me to make my mother some tea. It was
another kindness on monsieur’s part, no doubt, but he is too kind; we
must not keep this money, for it would take us too long to return it;
and so I have brought the twenty francs back.”

The gentleman in the dressing-gown resumed the perusal of his newspaper,
as he answered in a crabbed tone:

“I don’t know what you mean; the money is yours, if it was in your
pocket; keep it and let me alone.”

“But, monsieur, I am very sure that that twenty francs isn’t mine, as I
didn’t own a sou to buy sugar, and that was why I was crying on the
landing.”

“Well! what then? how does that concern me?”

“Why, monsieur, as nobody else but you put anything in my pocket, it
must have been you who put these five-franc pieces there.”

“You are dreaming!”

“Oh, no!”

“It wasn’t I!”

“I am sure that it was!”

“Corbleu! you tire me! Well, suppose it was? If I chose to put those
five-franc pieces in your pocket, am I not at liberty to put my money
where I choose? Do you propose to prevent me from helping you, when I
have too much money, and know that you haven’t enough? You are very
proud, it seems, master messenger?”

“Oh! it isn’t that, monsieur; but you have already overwhelmed us with
your kindness; it would be wrong to show our appreciation of it by
accepting what we don’t need.”

“You lie! you do need money, for last night you were without a sou, and
I don’t suppose that you have earned any during the night.”

“But, monsieur, my mother has all she needs now, and I am going to earn
some money to-day.”

“Oho! you are very confident, aren’t you? How do you know that you will
find work to-day, that it will be a good day for you?”

“Why! monsieur, it very seldom happens that a whole day passes without
someone employing us; a man would have to be very unlucky to have that
happen.”

“And you think that you are in no danger of such bad luck? Well, tell me
how you expect to earn money for your mother?”

“By doing errands, monsieur, as that is my business.”

“And how much do you get for an errand usually?”

“Why, that depends, monsieur, on how far I have to go; and then some
people are more generous than others.”

“But about how much?”

“Twelve sous, fifteen sous, sometimes twenty sous; but that’s not often,
unless we carry bundles.”

“And you take without a murmur whatever anyone chooses to give you?”

“To be sure, monsieur, as it’s the pay for our work.”

“Well, Monsieur Georget, I take you for my messenger from to-day; and
it’s my pleasure to pay you two francs for every errand that you do for
me.”

“Oh! that is too much, monsieur; no one ever pays as much as that.”

“If it suits me to pay that price, do you propose to prevent me from
being more generous than other people?--You understand then, the twenty
francs that you have received is a payment in advance on account of the
errands you may do for me.”

“Yes, monsieur; then it’s for ten errands.”

“Exactly, for ten errands.”

“But there’s the sugar too.”

“Confound it! now it’s the sugar! well, call it one errand more.”

“Monsieur is mistaken; it was at least nine pounds of sugar, and that
makes--that makes--I don’t know just the price of sugar.”

“Nor I; say no more about it, and don’t bother me with all these
trifles!”

“And the charcoal, monsieur?”

“This little fellow has evidently made a vow to drive me mad! Call it as
many errands as you choose, and let me alone.”

“I will call it fifteen, monsieur, but I am very sorry that I have
offended monsieur, who is so very kind, and I will go, monsieur, I will
go!”

And Georget had already reached the door, when Monsieur Malberg called
him back.

“Listen, my boy, as you seem in such a hurry to pay your debt to me, I
will employ you at once.”

“Oh! so much the better, monsieur, so much the better!”

“Listen: there is somewhere or other in the world a person whom I lost
sight of almost--almost nineteen years ago, and whom I am very desirous
to find. At that time, the gentleman in question, for it is a gentleman
that I am talking about, was some thirty-three or thirty-four years of
age; he was tall, with a good figure, and was rather a handsome man.
Moreover, he was a dandy, a man of fashion, and always dressed with much
elegance; but as that was nineteen years ago, his appearance may have
changed greatly! However, the man’s name is Monsieur de Roncherolle.”

“Very good, monsieur; and where did this handsome Monsieur de--de----”

“Roncherolle.”

“Roncherolle live? Oh! I shall not forget the name again.”

“He lived--but what good will it do you to know where he lived then, as
at that time he suddenly left his lodgings in Paris, and left France, I
imagine?”

“Still, he might have returned to his lodgings since.”

“Do you suppose that I haven’t been there a hundred times to inquire?
No, he has never come back to the place where he used to live; but he
did come back to Paris ten years ago, I am certain of that; but I was
travelling then, and we never met. When I returned, he had gone away
again; but, if I can believe certain reports, certain indications, he
returned to Paris some time ago, and is living--in what quarter of the
city? I have no idea. You see that the errand that I give you is a
difficult one. For a very long time, I, myself, have been looking for
that gentleman, but have failed to find him. If you succeed in
discovering him, why, then I shall look upon myself as your debtor, and
shall find a way to prove my gratitude to you!”

“Monsieur is jesting! he forgets that he has already paid me in advance
for fifteen errands. But if only this Monsieur de Roncherolle has not
changed his name--for in that case it would be very difficult to find
him!”

“He will not have changed his name, for he belongs to an old family, and
was very proud of it.”

“Did he do anything?”

“Nothing except use up his fortune as slowly as possible; and in all
this time he must have gone to the end of it. However, he has probably
retained his youthful habits: it is in the Chaussée d’Antin quarter, at
the close of the Opéra, or of the Théâtre des Italiens, or in front of
the best restaurants in Paris, that you are likely to find him, that
chance may lead to his being called by name in your presence; for you do
not know him, my poor boy, you have no description of him, and I can
supply you with no other means of identifying him. So I fancy that I am
giving you a commission impossible to execute!”

“Why so, monsieur? We hear so many things, we messengers! We go about in
all sorts of places; we see the whole of Paris, and I will bet that I
discover him, and in that case I will come instantly and report what I
have learned.”

“That goes without saying.”

“But this commission will not prevent monsieur from giving me others;
and if he has any letters to deliver----”

“Yes, yes; very well; now go.”

Georget left the bedroom; in the reception room he found Pongo in a
serious dispute with Mademoiselle Zima, who had fallen twice to the
floor and refused to rise without assistance. But Georget had no time to
stop; he was in too great a hurry to tell his mother of his interview
with the gentleman on the third floor. He lost no time in doing so, as
soon as he was with the excellent woman; and he tossed the four
five-franc pieces on the bed, exclaiming:

“They are really ours now, for that gentleman absolutely insisted on
paying me in advance. So we are rich! You shall have everything you
want; besides, I am going to earn money too. Good-by, mother; stay in
bed, and take care of yourself.”

“Why, Georget, you go off in such a hurry; you must take one of these
pieces at least; for you must live too.”

“No, mother, I don’t mean to touch that money; I mean to earn some first
of all, and not eat my breakfast until I have worked.”

“Georget, that’s nonsense! Will you listen to me?”

But the young messenger was not listening; he was already at the foot of
the stairs, and in front of the concierge’s lodge, where he found Madame
Baudoin, alone, still gazing with an air of deep affliction at the marks
of the brandy on the floor.

Georget’s first thought was to go to the Boulevard du Château d’Eau,
where he was very certain to find Violette, for the flower girl was
always there, even when it was not a market day. That was the advantage
of her branch of business; hand bouquets are of all times, and there are
some flowers in all seasons; which is very fortunate for lovers, who
give them all the year around, and for the ladies, who would like to
receive them all their lives.




VIII

THE BLUE PHIAL


Violette was seated behind her counter, making bouquets; she had a
peculiar knack at blending colors, and giving its full effect to the
simplest flower; her bouquets were tasteful, even when they were made up
of modest flowers only; there was taste and charm in their arrangement;
her art was apparent in every one. There are people who spoil whatever
they touch, and others who can make something out of nothing.

Georget stopped a few feet away from the flower girl, and looked at her;
but she was so busy over her bouquets that she did not see him, or at
least did not seem to see him; so he decided to accost her.

“Good-morning, Mamzelle Violette.”

“Ah! is it you, Monsieur Georget?”

“Yes, it’s me; I have been here some time already, within a few feet of
you, looking at you; but you didn’t deign to glance in my direction.”

“I didn’t deign! what does that mean? Do you think that I wouldn’t have
said good-morning to you if I had seen you? Do you accuse me of being
impolite now?”

“Oh, no! that isn’t what I mean, mamzelle; but sometimes, when one
doesn’t care to talk with a person----”

“Are you going to begin that again, Georget? If I didn’t want to talk
with you, what compels me to? I believe that I am my own mistress--alas!
only too much my own mistress, as I don’t know my parents, and my last
protectress, Mère Gazon, is lying yonder in the cemetery.”

“Well, now you are sad! I tell you, Mamzelle Violette, I was terribly
sad last night too, for my mother was sick, and we were short of money.”

“Why didn’t you tell me so, Georget? I would have lent you money. You
know very well that I have some, that I sell as much as I want to sell,
and that it wouldn’t have troubled me at all.”

“Oh! upon my word! Borrow money of you, of you, mademoiselle! never!”

“What! never? what does this mean? Why not of me as well as of anybody
else? Don’t you look upon me as your friend, or do you think me a
hard-hearted creature, who would not take pleasure in obliging you?”

“Oh, no! no! it isn’t that! on the contrary I know very well that you
are kind-hearted, that you love to do good; I have often seen you give
money to unfortunate people! But it isn’t that; it is--mon Dieu! I don’t
know how to express it; it is that I should be ashamed, I should blush
to----”

“Well, well! you are getting all mixed up. I go straight to the point:
Georget, do you want money? I have some here,--fifteen francs,
twenty-five francs; it won’t embarrass me in the least.”

“Thanks, thanks, mamzelle; I am very grateful; but now it isn’t as it
was last night; our position has changed, and we are in funds.”

“Is that really true? how does it happen that in so short a
time--Georget, if you are deceiving me, it is very wrong; you have no
money!”

To prove to the flower girl that he was not deceiving her, the messenger
told her all that had happened since the evening before. Violette
listened with the deepest interest, and her eyes filled with tears at
the story of Monsieur Malberg’s kindness.

“Ah! that gentleman is a fine man!” cried the girl, almost leaping from
her chair. “Suppose I should carry him a bouquet from you; would that
please him?”

“Oh, no! On the contrary it would make him angry; he doesn’t like to be
thanked; I am sure that he would be angry with me, if he knew that I had
told you how kind he was.”

“That’s a pity; I would like to know him. Does he ever walk in this
direction on market day?”

“No, I have never seen him here. He’s a man who doesn’t like society,
nor noise; and when you don’t know him, why, he hasn’t an agreeable
manner, I tell you!”

“But when one knows that he is kind and generous, then one ought not to
be frightened by his manner.”

“No matter, I assure you, mamzelle, that in his presence no one dares to
laugh.”

“Speaking of laughing, Monsieur Georget, I am going to scold you now.”

“Scold me?”

“Yes indeed. Oh! it’s of no use for you to assume your innocent air, I
was not fooled by what happened yesterday afternoon. The idea of
throwing my customers down! that’s very pretty, isn’t it? If you should
do that often, I don’t think that I should sell so many bouquets.”

“But I didn’t throw anybody down!”

“No, not you, but that good-for-nothing Chicotin, who had planned the
thing beforehand with you, because he knew that it would please you. Am
I right? Come, Georget, answer me--didn’t you plan with Chicotin to
throw that gentleman down?”

“Not that one, mamzelle, I haven’t any grudge against that one; it was
the other one; Chicotin made a mistake.”

“One or the other, it was very wrong, monsieur, to run against my
customers and overturn almost the whole of my shop.”

“But I tell you that Chicotin made a mistake.”

“And I tell you that if either you or he ever do that sort of thing
again, that will be the end, and I will not speak to you any more.”

“Oh! never fear, mademoiselle, we shan’t do it again; not I, that is,
for I can’t answer for others.”

“The others only do what you want.”

“Not speak to you any more? would that be possible? In the first place,
I should keep on speaking to you!”

“But I wouldn’t answer you.”

“Then you would mean to kill me with grief?”

“Nonsense, people don’t die for that sort of thing!”

“Oh, you think so, because you don’t feel what I do, here in the bottom
of my heart.”

“Georget, I thought that you intended to work hard to-day?”

“Ah! so I do, you are right.--By the way, mamzelle, you don’t happen to
know a gentleman named De Roncherolle, do you?”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“True, this isn’t the quarter where I can expect to find him; I must go
to Boulevard des Italiens, to the Chaussée d’Antin; that’s a pity, for
it’s a long way from you.”

“Do you mean that you don’t expect to do errands except in the
neighborhood of the Château d’Eau?”

“Why! of course I know that that isn’t possible; but I hate so to go
away from you.”

“Really, Georget, you make me want to laugh; you are not old enough yet
to be in love, it isn’t so very long since I used to see you playing
marbles with urchins of your age!”

“Oh! upon my word! it’s a long, long time since I stopped playing
marbles; why, that’s a game for children.”

“Oh! mon Dieu! don’t defend yourself so eagerly; there’s no harm in it.
And let me tell you, Georget, you would do better to play now than to
pass your time sighing and looking up at the sky, and always having a
dismal expression; you are better looking when you laugh.”

“Do you think so, mamzelle? Well! it isn’t my fault, it isn’t by
preference that I am dismal sometimes; but you always treat me like a
child, and that annoys me. However, I am seventeen and a half, and I
believe that I am almost as old as you.”

“No, I am more than eighteen; and at that age, a girl is much older than
a boy and ought to have more common sense.”

“Oh! that’s all nonsense! on the contrary, there are men of seventeen
who are already soldiers, and who have been in the army. Why, there’s a
little drummer, who was lately stationed at the barracks in Faubourg du
Temple, who was not more than eighteen years old, and he had been to
Africa, where he passed three years, and was in battles with the Arabs.”

“Does that tempt you? Are you inclined to go as a drummer?”

“I don’t say that; still, if I didn’t have my mother, and if there
wasn’t any hope of my being loved by the person I love, why, then----”

“Come, come! go and do your errand, Georget; you forget that that
gentleman paid you in advance!”

“You are right, mamzelle; I stand here talking, and the time passes so
quickly when I am talking with you! But I mean that you shall be
satisfied with me; I won’t be sad any more, and I won’t loaf any more.”

“We shall see!”

“Then will you have a little affection for me?”

“Haven’t I already? do you doubt it? Yes, I have affection for you,
because I know that you are not a ne’er-do-well, a good-for-nothing,
like so many others of your age, and because you are so fond of your
mother, whose only support you are. Ah! how lucky you are to have your
mother, Georget, and to be able to work for her! If I only knew mine, I
would take such pleasure in giving her the fruit of my work, in kissing
her and coddling her and taking every care of her! Oh, yes! I would have
loved my mother dearly! but I never had one, or rather she is dead; or
else--she deserted me!”

“There, now it is you who are sad! don’t think about all that any more,
mamzelle; they say that children without parents, and without a name,
are the ones who always make their fortune.”

“Why! that is easily understood, because then the good Lord takes the
place of their family, He never loses sight of them, and gives them good
inspirations; and with a protector like Him, they can never fail to make
their way.--But you must go, Georget!”

“Yes, mamzelle. Ah! I am happy this morning! my heart is full of joy; I
have talked with you, and I shall have a good day.”

“Good! now you are in good spirits, and that is the way I love to see
you, the way I would like you to be always, because--Well, it is
changing already! your brow is clouded and you turn pale;--what is the
matter, Georget? Don’t you feel well?”

The young messenger had, in fact, changed color, and his smiling face,
his eyes beaming with happiness, had suddenly assumed a different
expression. A single glance in the distance had sufficed to cause this
revolution: Georget had caught sight of Monsieur Jéricourt, the
handsome man who was in love with the flower girl, walking very slowly
in front of the Château d’Eau, not like a person who was going
elsewhere, but like one who had come there with a purpose.

Violette followed the direction of Georget’s eyes, and speedily
discovered the cause of his change of countenance; thereupon she
shrugged her shoulders impatiently and cried:

“Mon Dieu! is it going to begin again?--You are going to do your errand,
I hope, Georget?”

“Yes, mamzelle, yes, I’m going, I’m going right away; for if I didn’t, I
might do more foolish things. Here comes that perfumed dandy who makes
love to you--here he comes again; it seems that he means to come every
day now; it’s a regular thing!”

“That gentleman is perfectly free to walk on the boulevard; what makes
you think it’s on my account?”

“What makes me think so? why, it’s plain enough; you know as well as I
do that it’s on your account. Oh! what a pity that the boulevard’s free
to everybody!--I’m going, mamzelle, I’m going!”

Georget made up his mind to go, at last; he passed Jéricourt, upon whom
he bestowed a savage glance; but that gentleman did not notice him.

On the previous day the young author had been flatly snubbed by the
flower girl, and before witnesses too, which made his discomfiture even
more unpalatable. While dining at Bonvalet’s restaurant, with his
friend Saint-Arthur and the piquant little actress who was his friend’s
mistress, Jéricourt had had to submit to the raillery of Beau Alfred,
who, to compensate himself for having been thrown down and having broken
his suspenders, had not ceased to repeat:

“It was Jéricourt’s fault! he was making love to the flower girl, and
there seemed to be no end to it; but the pretty peddler didn’t bite at
his gallantries--I fancy that our dear friend will have nothing to show
for his seductive propositions. Ha! ha! ha! repulsed with heavy loss by
a flower girl! It’s incredible, it’s most annoying! He doesn’t choose to
admit it, but I am sure that he’s terribly annoyed.”

And Mademoiselle Zizi, the young actress who was so alluring in
salacious rôles, and who perhaps had her own reasons for taking the
thing to heart, outdid the little man in jocose remarks, and exclaimed
with a most significant glance at Jéricourt:

“Ah! that was well done! it was well done! How pleased I am! I shouldn’t
be any happier if I were offered an engagement at the Palais-Royal! What
a nice little story to tell at the theatre! How they will laugh!--Ah! so
our author friends affect flower girls, do they? that is very fine!
Instead of sticking to actresses, who at least are in their line, and
whom it would certainly induce to put more fire and talent into their
parts--Ha! ha! to make love to a flower girl, and to have nothing to
show for it! how humiliating!--Poor Jéricourt! he looks as glum as an
owl.”

The young author, affecting the utmost tranquillity, simply replied to
these attacks:

“If that young flower girl should appear on the stage, I’ll wager that
she would eclipse many people who think now that they have a hold on the
public!”

“Is that meant for me?” cried Mademoiselle Zizi, throwing a lobster claw
in Jéricourt’s face.

“Why, no! of course not!” hastily interposed Saint-Arthur, as the author
did not respond. “For you! upon my word! how can you imagine such a
thing, when Jéricourt is wild over your talent? For he has told me so a
hundred times; he says that you will replace Déjazet.--Haven’t you said
that to me often, Jéricourt?”

But the angry author continued to maintain an obstinate silence, which
increased the irritation of the little actress.

“In any event,” she cried, “no one will be able to judge of my talent in
any of monsieur’s plays; for some time past he has given me nothing but
unimportant parts.”

“I give you more than my brother authors do, for they don’t give you any
parts at all.”

“What does that prove? That all authors belong to a coterie; that they
allow themselves to be inveigled by the prayers of this one and the
enticements of that one, or by the advice of the manager, who has his
reasons for looking after still another one. O the stage! O you authors!
it’s shocking, the injustice we have to put up with; and then they throw
a flower girl in our faces! and tell us that she has only to appear to
leave us behind! In that case, we’re only stop-gaps, eh?--Oh! it’s an
outrage! it’s abominable! O God! my nerves! I am suffocating! I am
dying!”

And Mademoiselle Zizi threw herself back on the divan, stretching out
her legs and arms, gnashing her teeth, and wriggling like one possessed;
whereupon Beau Saint-Arthur quickly seized a carafe, exclaiming in a
tone of deep distress:

“The deuce! now she’s going to have a nervous attack; that’s very
pleasant. The devil take you, Jéricourt, you’re the cause of it all; you
spoke so roughly to her! Look, see how rigid she is!”

“That will pass away!” replied Jéricourt very calmly, helping himself to
some truffled calves’ brains.

_“Canaille!”_ muttered Mademoiselle Zizi, still rigid.

And Alfred, as he approached his charmer with a glass of cold water, was
repulsed by her so sharply that a part of the contents of the glass
splashed in his face, while the young woman muttered, taking pains to
grind her teeth together:

“I want my blue phial with the opal stopper; I must have it.”

“Where is it, dear love? Shall I feel in your pocket?”

“Don’t come near me. My phial is at my rooms, on my dressing table in
the boudoir.”

“Very good--I’ll send a waiter.”

“No, monsieur, I insist on your going yourself; the waiter would make
some mistake.”

“But you haven’t two blue phials, and----”

“I insist on your going yourself, or else I won’t try to live.”

These last words were accompanied by such violent gnashing of the teeth,
that the affectionate Alfred, fearing that his mistress would dislocate
her jaw, hastened to take his hat, saying to Jéricourt:

“I must humor her; you see what a paroxysm she is having, and her blue
phial contains some salt, I don’t know what--some mixture that brings
her round at once. So that she often sends me to get it, for she never
remembers to take it with her. I will run to her house; luckily it isn’t
far--Rue Basse. But for all that it isn’t amusing.--Don’t leave her,
Jéricourt, above all things; do what you can for her.”

“Never fear.”

The dandified Saint-Arthur, leaving Bonvalet’s, almost ran to Rue
Basse-du-Temple, and on reaching his mistress’s abode, was received by
her maid, who also was dining, and who had hurriedly locked the
dining-room door, taking the precaution to remove the key; she ushered
the young lion into the salon, saying:

“Come in here, monsieur, and wait; I’ll go and fetch madame’s phial.”

“I could have waited in the reception room just as well; I’m in a
hurry.”

“No, indeed, monsieur, I should think not! I know too well what I owe
you; stay here, I won’t be long.”

“Don’t bring the wrong phial!”

“Oh! there’s no danger of that--madame sends for it often enough. I know
what she uses it for.”

Left alone in the salon, Alfred lost patience; he returned to the
reception room, where he was nearer madame’s boudoir; thereupon he heard
quite distinctly the rattle of knives and forks and glasses, and the
popping of corks, which sounds proceeded from the dining-room.

He even heard a sneeze, so loud that the doors shook. But the maid
returned with the blue phial with the opal stopper and handed it to the
young man, saying:

“Why didn’t monsieur stay in the salon? Perhaps monsieur heard noises in
the dining-room? Madame’s two cats are dining with me; they amuse me and
are good company for me.”

“My dear girl, one of them has a cold in the head; he sneezes pretty
loud for a cat--loud enough to break the windows.”

“Oh! monsieur is mistaken, the sneezing was in the yard. The concierge
does nothing else; it’s downright disgusting!”

Paying no further heed to what the maid said, our young elegant, armed
with the precious phial, ran back to the restaurant, and going at once
to the door of his private room, tried to open it; but to no purpose did
he turn the knob, the door was bolted inside.

Saint-Arthur began to knock and call.

“What does this mean? It’s I, Zizi!--Jéricourt! Why do you lock
yourselves in? What’s the meaning of this jest?”

“Have you brought the phial?” murmured the young actress in an altered
voice.

“Yes, of course I’ve brought it.”

“Is it my blue phial?”

“To be sure; I know it well enough.”

“With the opal stopper?”

“The stopper is in it! It’s perfectly tight.”

“Well! take it back, that isn’t the one I want; I want the yellow one
with an agate stopper.”

“Oh! this is too much! Zizi, you abuse my good nature.--Open the door,
Jéricourt.”

“I should be delighted to, but madame says no. She has taken a knife and
threatens to bury it in her breast if I take a step toward the door.”

“Oh! in that case, don’t budge, my friend! do me the favor not to budge,
stay where you are! I know the mad creature; she would do some insane
thing or other. I will run and fetch the yellow phial!”

And the simple-minded fellow started off again to get the yellow phial.

To those who say that this is an improbable incident, we reply that we
have seen such ladies make the man whose fortune they were squandering
do much more improbable things; and, in truth, they are quite right to
do it, when they find blockheads ready to gratify all their whims.

On returning with the yellow phial, Alfred opened the door without
difficulty. He found Jéricourt still at the table, attacking the dishes
with more ardor than ever; and Mademoiselle Zizi, with cheeks as red as
cherries, flew into his arms, crying:

“I wanted to put your love and trust to the proof, dear love, and you
have come out triumphant from the trial; you are worthy of my affection;
I give it to you once more, and more entirely; let me kiss you on the
left eye.”

Alfred submitted to the caress, smiling at Jéricourt with an expression
that seemed to say: “You see how she loves me!”--And the dinner came to
an end most amiably; everybody was satisfied.




IX

THREE FOR A BOUQUET


But the result of that dinner was that Jéricourt’s thoughts recurred to
Violette, and he said to himself:

“They made fun of me to-day on the subject of the flower girl; if I
don’t succeed with her, they will do it again. That will injure my
reputation; I shall seem as big a donkey as Saint-Arthur. I have gone
too far to stop. Besides, the girl is so pretty! I am inclined to think
that I love her; I am not quite sure of it, but it may be so. I did not
lie when I said that she would outshine Mademoiselle Zizi; she’s worth
ten, yes, a hundred Zizis!--I have an idea: suppose I should advise her
to go on the stage? she would be a charming actress, and I can find
managers enough who will be delighted to bring her out. I will give her
lessons and advice.--By Jove! that’s an excellent idea of mine. One of
these days I will work it into a vaudeville.--Violette will not hold out
against that proposition. The stage! the hope of making a sensation on
the boards, the pleasure of appearing in a lot of unusual
costumes--those things always fascinate a girl. This one must be as much
of a coquette as the others, or she wouldn’t be a woman! She will give
way, and I shall triumph. A flower girl turned into an actress--what
would there be so surprising in that? We have seen great talents start
from much lower down in the scale. And then, when a woman is pretty, it
takes so many difficulties out of the way. The thing will go all
alone.--I really must make a play out of this idea.”

With such thoughts in his mind, Jéricourt came to the Château d’Eau the
next day, and he lost no time in accosting the flower girl, who was
still looking after the young man who had found it so hard to leave her.

“Good-morning, my lovely flower girl.”

“Good-morning, monsieur.”

“Oh! what a curt tone! I see that you are still angry with me.”

“I, monsieur? Why so?”

“Why, on account of what I said yesterday.”

“Oh! I forgot that long ago! Such things go in at one ear and out at the
other; they never stay in my head.”

“If they stayed in your heart, that would be better.”

“Thank heaven, my heart doesn’t waste any time on such nonsense!”

“Mademoiselle Violette, you will not always talk like this, unless
nature has given you a heart protected by a triple steel cuirass.”

“Oh! I don’t wear a cuirass, monsieur; a corset’s quite enough!--Do you
want to buy a bouquet, monsieur?”

“In a moment. I have many things to say to you, and I would like to talk
with you first.”

“If it’s to repeat what you said yesterday, I assure you it isn’t worth
while to begin the conversation.”

“Are you afraid that I am going to talk of love?--You have a way of
saying things that is far from encouraging!”

“Mon Dieu! I don’t choose my words; I say just what I think.”

“A woman who says what she thinks! do you know that they are very rare?”

“I say, do you know that you ain’t very complimentary to women? Have
they caught you very often?”

“That isn’t what I meant. Look you, Violette, I admit that I did wrong
yesterday; I spoke to you as if I were certain that you loved me, and
you hadn’t given me any right to do it.”

“Just as soon as you admit that you did wrong, that’s the end of it,
it’s all forgotten. Let’s talk about something else.”

“It isn’t that my feeling for you has changed; on the contrary, I adore
you more than ever!”

“I say--it seems to me you’re beginning yesterday’s song again!”

“No; yesterday I made certain propositions that displeased you.”

“Pardi! they were very pretty, your propositions! to dine with monsieur
at a restaurant! to offer to furnish lodgings for me! Why on earth don’t
you marry me and be done with it?”

“That might have come in time!”

“Yes, in the thirteenth arrondissement! But I prefer the other twelve.
As for furniture, I have some, monsieur, and it’s my very own; Mère
Gazon left it to me; it ain’t violet wood, to be sure, but it’s good
enough for me; and besides, I think a great deal of it, in memory of the
one who gave it to me.”

“All that is very praiseworthy, no doubt; but I don’t think that there’s
anything wrong in trying to improve one’s position, to make a fortune;
that’s the object of all who haven’t money, and no one has ever blamed
them.”

“Make a fortune! To be sure, that ain’t unpleasant, that is, if you do
it by honest means! If not, one had better stay in one’s little corner.”

“Oh! bless my soul! who said anything about ceasing to be honest? What
extraordinary creatures these girls are--always thinking that somebody
means to lead them astray!”

“That’s because we know you, my fine gentlemen; and, if I remember
right, you didn’t propose to me yesterday that I should become a
_rosière_.”[A]

[A] The maiden who wins the rose offered as a prize for virtue in
certain villages.

“Listen, Violette; I will come straight to the point.”

“Well! let us hear what your point is.”

“You have been to the play sometimes, of course?”

“Why, yes, several times.”

“And you like it?”

“I should say that I do like it! I think it’s beautiful, and if I was
rich, I’d go often.”

“And what do you think of the actresses? Don’t you think it must be
delightful to appear in public, to be applauded, to wear hundreds of
different costumes, and to be stared at and admired by a whole theatre
full of people?”

“Oh! how fast you go! That must be fine when one has talent. I have seen
some women who acted so well that you couldn’t get tired listening to
them; but I’ve seen others who acted so poorly that everybody grumbled,
and laughed when they were trying to make you cry. I have seen some
pretty ones; but there are some terribly ugly ones; and it’s no use for
them to wear handsome costumes and a lot of paint on their faces; it
don’t make them any better-looking.--But what makes you say all this to
me?”

“Because, Violette, if you choose to go on the stage, it rests with you
to do it; a glorious career is open to you, and I am sure that you will
succeed, that you will obtain glory and wealth at once!”

“I an actress!--Are you making fun of me again, monsieur?”

“No, indeed, I am speaking in all seriousness. Listen to me: I am a
dramatic author, so that the stage is my livelihood, or rather my
constant study; therefore you must admit that I ought to know something
about it. You have all that is needed for success on the stage: your
figure is well set up, you are tall but not too tall; your face is
lovely.--Oh! I am not paying compliments; indeed, you must know that you
are pretty, you have been told so often enough! Your voice is clear and
well modulated; with all these advantages and the lessons I will give
you in declamation and in carrying yourself on the stage, it is
impossible that you should not make a grand success. As for your getting
a chance to make your début, that is my concern; I will undertake that
and I shall have no difficulty. Better still, I will give you a part, a
splendid part, in my next play; and as a reward of my zeal, of my
lessons, of all that I will do for you, I will not ask you for
anything,--except a little gratitude when you are a popular
actress.--Well! what do you say? isn’t that better than being a flower
girl?”

“Is that all you’re buying this morning, monsieur?”

“But you don’t answer my proposition, Violette. Don’t you understand
that I am offering you a brilliant future--all the enjoyments, all the
pleasures of life? And that won’t interfere with your remaining
virtuous.”

“It’s too risky in that business! No, thank you, monsieur, all this
don’t tempt me; it amuses me to see other people act, but it don’t make
me want to act myself. Everyone to his taste, and I prefer my flowers to
your stage.”

“Nonsense! it isn’t possible that you refuse, when I undertake to remove
all obstacles.”

“Buy this bouquet;--just see what a pretty one it is, and what a sweet
smell! I’ll bet that it don’t smell so good in your wings.”

“Surely, this isn’t your last word, Violette? You will think it over,
and you will accept.”

“Oh! my reflecting’s all done, monsieur; it don’t take long with me; I
know right off what suits me. I don’t feel any calling for the stage.”

“But I tell you----”

“Don’t take the trouble to say any more, monsieur; you’ll just waste
your words, and that would be a pity, as you make your business out of
them, and you sell wit on paper.”

Jéricourt was so vexed by the rejection of his proposition, when he
expected a complete triumph, that he was tongue-tied, and could not
think of a single word to answer the flower girl.

At that moment he felt a hand on his arm, and someone said to him:

“Good-day, Monsieur Jéricourt; I recognized you from behind by your
cane; I said: ‘That’s my neighbor’s cane.’--How are you?”

Jéricourt turned and found himself face to face with the little young
man who squinted so horribly and whom we have already met at the Château
d’Eau flower market, with his mother and sister--Monsieur Astianax
Glumeau, whose room was on the floor above his parents, on the same
landing as Jéricourt’s apartment.

“Ah! is it you, young man?” said the author, as, with a patronizing air,
he offered a finger to little Astianax, who deemed himself highly
honored by that favor; because, in his eyes, a man who wrote plays which
were actually performed was a demigod. “What are you here for, my little
rake? to buy a bouquet for some fair one whom you are courting, I
suppose?”

“Oh! upon my word, Monsieur Jéricourt! I should not dare--I am too young
as yet. However, it isn’t the inclination that is lacking.”

“How old are you, pray?”

“Nineteen.”

“At that age I had already had fifty love-affairs!”

“Oh! but you--an author--that’s a very different matter; you weren’t
shy.”

“I never was that; there is nothing more disastrous for a man. If you
take my advice, you will cure yourself of that failing.”

“Papa and mamma don’t say so; they want to keep me in leading strings
like a poodle. Let them keep my sister so if they choose; that’s all
right--she’s a girl! But me! Yes, you’re right; there’s nothing more
foolish than a bashful man. But I don’t propose to be bashful any more;
I feel inclined to make people talk about me.--Were you buying flowers,
Monsieur Jéricourt?”

“Yes--that is to say, I was looking over them; I haven’t decided yet.”

Little Astianax put his mouth to his neighbor’s ear and whispered:

“The flower girl’s mighty pretty!”

“Do you think so? That’s a matter of taste.”

“Hum! nonsense! Anybody can see that; I noticed her yesterday; I came
with mamma and my sister to buy some flowers, because it was papa’s
birthday. I didn’t buy any; I gave him some nougat.”

“A very pretty bouquet that!”

“Oh! it doesn’t make any difference, I am going to give him some flowers
to-day; and I came here again, for I dreamed of the flower girl all
night.”

“Really!”

“Yes, yes; I was a pacha and she was a slave.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Jéricourt aloud, turning to Violette, “here’s a
young man who dreamed about you all night, just because he saw you
yesterday.”

Monsieur Astianax turned scarlet; he pulled the skirt of Jéricourt’s
coat and whispered: “Oh! I won’t tell you anything more! You make me
blush!”

“Don’t be alarmed; on the contrary, I am acting in your interest; you
are in love with mademoiselle--very good, I tell her so for you. Who
knows? perhaps you will be more fortunate than the rest of us,
especially as you have all that a man requires to succeed.”

Jéricourt uttered the last words in such an ironical tone that any other
than little Astianax would have taken them in very bad part; but he, on
the contrary, accepted them as the truth; he smiled and twisted his
mouth into the shape of an ace of spades, while his eyes shot flames to
right and left.

Violette restrained the intense desire to laugh caused by young
Astianax’s contortions of feature; she said as she arranged her flowers:

“Come, monsieur, choose. Do you want a bouquet? Here’s a very pretty
one,--as monsieur doesn’t take it.”

“Yes--that is to say, you must make me one; but I’ll explain what you
must put in it: I want some heliotrope--that’s the flower of witty
people; then some myrtle--that means interest, affection; and a tulip in
the centre--that means an honest heart, decent behavior.”

“What, my dear Astianax, does the tulip mean all that?” said Jéricourt,
laughingly; “I should never have suspected it. The devil! you are very
learned about flowers. Go on--what else do you want?”

“A few red carnations--they mean that one would fight at need for the
object of one’s love; I put them in for myself, you understand; then a
poppy and some immortelles--they promise strength and health, and they
will please my father, for he is always thinking that he’s sick; he took
a bottle of lemonade only this morning--you know, the kind of lemonade
that purges.--Surround the whole with pansies, and I shall have a
bouquet full of meaning--a genuine _selam_.”

“Bravo, young man, bravo! With such bouquets you will make your way very
rapidly with the ladies!”

“This one is for papa; but later, I hope----”

“I am very sorry, monsieur,” said Violette, “but I can’t make such a
bouquet as you want; I have no red carnations; you will hardly find any
at this season, and I haven’t any myrtle, or any poppies.”

“The devil! that’s annoying; but I should be sorry to apply to another
flower girl; on the contrary, I mean to give you my custom.”

“I am quite sure, monsieur, that no other flower girl will have what you
want--not in this quarter, at all events. Take my advice, monsieur, and
buy this bouquet that I was offering to monsieur--just roses and
violets; it’s very pretty, and it’s the last one; I haven’t got anything
left to make one like it.”

“I don’t say that it isn’t very nice, but it doesn’t express my
meaning--and it isn’t a _selam_, either.”

“But just see the pretty roses, the lovely buds! Anybody would say it
was a lovely bouquet.”

“And I agree with anybody; the bouquet is as pretty as the seller; and
faith! that’s saying a great deal!”

These last words were uttered by a gentleman of mature years, dressed
with some elegance, whose bearing, whose manners, and whose smile even,
instantly pointed him out as one who frequented the best society. His
features were regular, refined and distinguished; but they also
indicated that their owner had taken a great deal out of life; his face
was worn, the flesh beneath his eyes was puffed out, his forehead and
cheeks were furrowed with wrinkles. In a word, he was naught but a
remnant of a very good-looking man, but he still had the _comme il faut_
manner, the intelligent eye, and the slightly impertinent and satirical
tone.

This individual was leaning on a very handsome cane, holding in his
right hand an eyeglass through which he was examining Violette; he had
paused in front of her booth and listened to her last words; and with
his eyes fixed upon her lovely face, he muttered between his teeth:

“It’s strange! there is a resemblance--to whom I can’t say; but I know a
face like that.”

Jéricourt and little Astianax were greatly surprised when they saw the
newcomer take the bouquet from the girl’s hands, saying:

“How much for this bouquet?”

“Three francs, monsieur.”

“Three francs! Pardieu! that’s nothing at all; bouquets seem to be cheap
in this quarter. I’ll take it. Here, my pretty flower girl, pay
yourself.”

And he handed Violette a five-franc piece; whereupon little Astianax
stood on tiptoe and cried:

“But I bargained for that bouquet before you did, monsieur, and I am
going to buy it. You can’t purchase it, not you.”

The gentleman contented himself with a disdainful glance at the young
man as he repeated:

“Here, my girl, pay yourself.”

At this point Jéricourt thought fit to take part in the discussion. He
stepped between Astianax and the stranger, and, assuming a
self-sufficient tone, remarked to the latter:

“I was the first one who negotiated for that bouquet; so the flower girl
has no right to sell it to anybody else, as I am ready to pay the price
she asked. Be kind enough to give it to me, monsieur;--do you
understand?”

The elderly gentleman simply turned his eyeglass on Jéricourt, and
holding his head a little sidewise, said with an ironical smile:

“When I was your age, monsieur, I never allowed anything that I had in
hand to be taken from me, and I have clung to that habit as I grew
older;--do you understand?”

The gentleman’s self-assured manner and the tone of persiflage in which
he made this retort surprised our man of letters, who did not know just
what to do; but it was not so with little Astianax, who was furious
because the stranger seemed to pay no heed to him, to treat him like a
child. He stepped up to him, looked him in the face as well as he could,
and shouted, in a voice which anger made exceedingly shrill:

“I don’t know why monsieur didn’t answer me! You see, I don’t allow
myself to be insulted! I don’t propose to be treated like a child, I
don’t! I have plenty of spunk, I have!”

“So! you are spunky, are you, my good friend?” rejoined the gentleman,
turning his glass upon Astianax. “Indeed! so much the better! I
congratulate you, for it may be a good thing for you when you grow up.”

“What’s that? when I grow up? I am nineteen years old, monsieur, and at
that age one isn’t afraid of anybody!”

“Nonsense! nonsense! that isn’t possible! You mean nine.”

This remark made little Astianax tremble with rage; he stamped the
ground and seemed disposed to rush at the gentleman, who continued to
stare at him and even ventured to smile as he scrutinized him. Violette,
fearing that the little man would resort to violence, had risen to
restrain him, and Jéricourt, whom the quarrel seemed to amuse, was
wondering what would happen next, when the scene changed as suddenly as
when the manager’s whistle is heard at the Opéra.

On the boulevard, however, Chicotin Patatras acted once more as the
scene-shifter.

Georget’s friend had been sauntering about the Château d’Eau for several
minutes; being desirous to spend during the morning all the money that
he had left from the day before, the young rascal had breakfasted so
sumptuously that his brain was a little excited, and he felt in the mood
for perpetrating a practical joke. In this frame of mind, he had noticed
that several gentlemen were standing in front of the flower girl’s
booth, and he soon recognized Jéricourt as the man whom he had tried to
throw down on the preceding day. He said to himself instantly:

“Why shouldn’t I do to-day what I missed doing yesterday? My little
Georget don’t like that scented dandy; he’s there again, prowling round
the flower girl; if I knock him over, I shall be doing a friend a favor,
and then too it’s fun for me. I must go about it playfully; Chopard
ain’t here to push me--that’s a shame.--Ah! pardi! I’ll just go and grab
that cabby’s glazed hat, as he stands dreaming there by his horses; of
course he’ll chase me, and I’ll run between my man’s legs.”

Chicotin put his plan into execution forthwith. The cabman, bereft of
his hat, ran after the _gamin_, shouting at the top of his lungs; he
fled in the direction of the flower girl and hurled himself suddenly
against the legs of someone, whom he bowled over, while the others
hastily stepped aside; but Chicotin had missed his aim again; it was not
Jéricourt, but little Astianax, who was sprawling on the asphalt.

“Upon my word, Mademoiselle Violette, it’s impossible to stop in front
of your booth, it seems!” said Jéricourt, turning angrily away. “I
congratulate you on the way you treat your customers, and especially on
the champion you have chosen for that purpose. If it’s for him that you
insist on remaining a flower girl, it doesn’t speak well for your
taste.”

“What’s that? what did the dark-haired dandy say?” cried Chicotin,
rising and tossing the cabman his hat. “I didn’t understand his
apology.”

“I don’t know what the gentleman said,” exclaimed Violette, “but I do
know this, Monsieur Chicotin, that you have played the same trick two
days in succession on people who were standing in front of my shop; and
I propose that it shall stop; if not, I know to whom to complain.”

During this exchange of words, young Astianax had risen, with a lump on
his forehead, and both knees of his trousers torn; because he wore
straps under his feet, which inevitably caused the cloth to tear at the
slightest strain.

The rents that he saw in his trousers seemed to distress young Astianax;
he heaved a deep sigh and muttered:

“Sapristi! and it’s only the second time I have worn them!”

Thereupon, giving no further thought to the bouquet or to his quarrel,
the little fellow walked rapidly away, trying to hold his hands over the
holes in his garments, which his short coat did not cover.

Meanwhile the elderly gentleman had held the bouquet in his hand, still
leaning rather heavily on his cane.

“Nobody will dispute possession of these flowers with me any more,” he
said at last. “My two rivals have abandoned the ground; it’s a dangerous
place, it seems, if I am to believe what that gentleman said.--Ha! ha!
you rascal! is it true that you amuse yourself throwing down
mademoiselle’s customers?”

“Oh, no! it’s only a joke, monsieur!” Chicotin replied slyly; “but I
have bad luck, I never hit the ones I aim at.”

“Were you aiming at me, pray?”

“No, indeed, monsieur; of course not!”

“Because, you see, I have the gout, and if you had knocked me down, it
might have been a more serious matter for me than for that little man,
who ought not to have lost the habit of tumbling yet.”

“Oh! monsieur, if I had had that misfortune, I should never have
forgiven myself; but I’d have picked you up.”

“That would have been most generous on your part; but I prefer that you
shouldn’t have any occasion to pick me up. You look to me like a genuine
ne’er-do-well; but I don’t dislike knaves of your sort.”

“Monsieur’s a good judge.”

“Would you like to come with me? I’ll give you an errand to do.”

“Yes, monsieur, why not? And you won’t be sorry that you chose me; I do
errands in first-class shape!”

“Very good! if I am satisfied with you, I will give you my work. What’s
your name?”

“Chicotin--nicknamed Patatras because----”

“Parbleu! I have a shrewd suspicion why you had that name given you, if
you always make your entrée as you did just now, by throwing people
down.--But this pretty flower girl doesn’t like the way you treat her
customers, and she is right.”

“Bless me! monsieur,” said Violette, “it’s the second time in two days
that he has run into my counter like that.”

“It’s the last time, Mamzelle Violette; I promise you I won’t do it
again; I’m done.”

“This girl is really lovely!” muttered the gentleman, as he paid for his
bouquet. “Whom in the devil does she look like? Faith! I’ve known so
many!--Follow me,” he said, turning to Chicotin.

He walked away, leaning on his cane and putting his left foot to the
ground with great precaution, which necessarily kept him from walking
fast.

And Monsieur Chicotin followed him, taking several steps very rapidly,
then falling back to cut a caper or some monkey trick.

“If we keep on at this pace,” he said, “we shan’t beat the railway
train.”




X

A DOMESTIC INTERIOR


In a very handsome salon of an apartment on Boulevard Beaumarchais, in
one of those fine houses recently built, which make that quarter one of
the most attractive in Paris, three persons were assembled: Monsieur
Glumeau, his wife and his daughter.

We know the ladies. Monsieur Glumeau, formerly a commission merchant,
was a man of fifty years, of medium height, who had never been handsome,
but who might have possessed some attractions when he was young, thanks
to his light hair, his china-blue eyes--there are people who like
china-blue eyes--and above all, to his slender figure, his shapely leg
and his small and well-arched foot. As he grew older, Monsieur Glumeau
had not taken on flesh like his excellent wife, but had retained a
youthful appearance, especially when seen from behind; as to his face,
that had become considerably wrinkled, but his eyes were still
china-blue, and although he no longer possessed his fair hair, he had
replaced it by a wig of the same color.

It is probable that Monsieur Glumeau’s features would not have undergone
so sudden a revolution, except for the mania that he had contracted of
drugging himself, of putting himself on strict diet for the slightest
indisposition. The dread of being ill constantly tormented the
ex-commission merchant, and by dint of taking care of his health, he had
succeeded in ruining it. His ordinary reading was the fourth page of the
large newspapers; he took note of all the infallible remedies announced
and extolled by their inventors; he often bought them although he had
not the disease which they were supposed to cure; but he would take them
all as a matter of precaution, saying to himself: “If I should have this
disease, I shall have the remedy at hand.”

To this weakness of mind, far from agreeable in a family, Monsieur
Glumeau added the pretension of shining in conversation. He constantly
sought to make sharp or clever remarks; but as he was never able to
think of any, he often halted on the way, which fact imparted much
incoherency to his speech. Lastly, having formerly been what is called
a fine dancer, he had retained much liking for that exercise, wherein he
could at his pleasure exhibit his foot, of which he was very proud, and
upon which he kept his eyes fixed as he danced.

After retiring from business with a very considerable fortune, which had
recently been added to by an inheritance, Monsieur Glumeau had purchased
a country house at Nogent-sur-Marne; there he had had built in his
garden a small theatre, where in the summer his family and friends
indulged in the pleasure of theatrical performances, being actors and
spectators in turn. Monsieur Glumeau liked to receive company; the
presence of guests made him forget his imaginary diseases; as his wife
and his children were also fond of pleasure, the ex-commission
merchant’s house was one of those where one was always certain to pass
one’s time agreeably; ceremony and etiquette were banished from it, and
everyone was at liberty to do what he pleased; the company was sometimes
a little mixed but it made up in quantity what it lacked in quality.

At the moment of which we write, the head of the family was in the act
of drinking a cup of tea into which he had squeezed the juice of a
lemon, because when he woke that morning he had a bitter taste in his
mouth.

“I think that this will do me good,” said Monsieur Glumeau, as he drank
his tea in little sips; “lemon juice in tea clears up the bile.”

“But why will you have it that you’re bilious, my dear? Your complexion
is very clear, you are not yellow.”

“You say I am not yellow, my dear love; that’s a question! I am a little
yellow--on one side of my nose; and I don’t propose to wait until I am
as yellow as a pumpkin before I take a purgative.”

“Do you mean to say that you propose to purge yourself again? That would
be the last straw. You took Sedlitz water a fortnight ago.”

“What does that prove, if I need it again?”

Madame Glumeau shrugged her shoulders, exclaiming:

“You make yourself sick by dosing yourself, Edouard!”

“Why no, my dear love, one doesn’t make oneself sick by taking care of
oneself; on the contrary, it prevents one from being sick.”

“You know that we have company to dinner to-day. I trust that you don’t
propose to select this moment to take medicine.”

“I am not talking about medicine to-day; but listen: just now I was
reading in my paper the announcement of a most valuable discovery.”

“Something to prevent potatoes from being sick?”

“Oh! I am not talking about potatoes!”

“But, my dear, they are so useful, so nourishing, so valuable, so----”

“Let me alone with your potatoes; I don’t like them. What I am talking
about is an infallible remedy for the gravel.”

“But you haven’t that, monsieur!”

“No, but I might have it!”

“What a misfortune it is to be afraid of all diseases!”

“I am not afraid of them, madame, but I simply am on my guard against
them; it isn’t from fear, it’s from prudence, from common sense.”

“Bless my soul! if all men resembled you, it would be amusing.”

“What do you mean by that, Lolotte?”

“I mean that by dint of thinking about diseases, you think that you have
them all, and it doesn’t tend to make you a lively companion in
society.”

“Madame, _si vis pacem, para bellum_.”

“What does that mean, monsieur?”

“If you wish for peace, prepare for war.”

“What connection has that with your lemon juice in tea?”

“It also means: If you want to be well, look after yourself as if you
were ill.”

“Oh! as to that, I don’t believe a word of it; do I dose myself,
monsieur? and you see how well I am!”

“It is a fact that you are getting too stout, my dear love; but if you
would have consented to take a little white mustard seed, you would have
lost flesh.”

“No, thanks, monsieur; I should probably have become like a lath, and I
prefer to remain as I am. To hear you talk, one would say that I was
enormous.”

“Not exactly, but you haven’t any waist.”

“I haven’t any waist! I haven’t any waist! Upon my word, I guess that
it’s your eyes that are diseased; you see crooked.”

“What! why do you say that my eyes are diseased? Is it because they are
red? Don’t joke, Lolotte, are my eyes swollen?”

“Ah! so I haven’t any waist! All men don’t think as you do, monsieur,
and in spite of my stoutness, if I chose to listen to all the pleasant
things that are said to me----”

“Madame! you forget that your daughter is here.--Eolinde, come and look
at my eyes; it seems to me that they sting.”

Mademoiselle Eolinde was looking over a volume of plays; instead of
answering her father, she cried:

“We must play _La Forêt Périlleuse_, papa, and I will be the fair
Ca--Ca--Camille!”

“Yes, my child, yes, we have already decided to give that play,” said
Madame Glumeau; “and we are going to have here to-day all the people who
are to take part in the first piece to be given at our country house, in
order to distribute the rôles. But the other piece is what hasn’t yet
been chosen. We must have a very lively vaudeville.”

“Oh, mamma! let’s give _Estelle, ou Le Père et La Fille!_”

“I should like to know if you call that a lively vaudeville! My dear
girl, when we have theatricals in our house, for our amusement, we
mustn’t undertake to make people weep, for the only result is to make
them laugh. As a general rule, you are all very bad, but that is what is
wanted; the worse actors you are, the more laughter you cause; if you
acted well, it would be very dull, I fancy.”

“Oh, mamma! how you ta--ta--talk, just because you--you--do--do--don’t
act yourself!”

“If I did, I should try to be funny, that’s all; but I should know my
lines, I tell you that; and you never know yours.”

During this conversation between the mother and the daughter, Monsieur
Glumeau had risen, had stationed himself in front of a mirror, and was
looking at his eyes with a persistent scrutiny which finally ended in
making his sight blurred; whereupon he paced the salon, muttering:

“I must get some eye salve; I ought to have a recipe somewhere.”

“But there’s nothing the matter with your eyes, monsieur!” cried Madame
Glumeau impatiently; “you apparently propose to make yourself blind now!
Why don’t you take the elixir of long life, and have done with it?”

“That wouldn’t be such a bad idea, madame!”

“Oh, yes! do as your friend Boutelet did. Do you remember what happened
to him, because he drank heaven knows how many bottles of the elixir of
long life in six months? He died of it!”

“Perhaps he would have died six months earlier if he hadn’t drunk it!”

“After three o’clock and Astianax has not come home,” said tall Eolinde;
“it isn’t very kind of my brother, for he was to bring us a collection
of plays to choose from!”

“Wasn’t it his neighbor, Monsieur Jéricourt, that young author who lives
on the fourth floor, who was to lend your brother the plays?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“He has a very attractive look, has that young man, we must invite him
to come to our play in the country; eh, Edouard?”

“I have no objection; isn’t he a newspaper man too?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry for that; we must try to have a few newspaper men; they go
everywhere in society, they write articles about everything they see,
and perhaps they would speak of me in the paper, and I should see myself
in print; that would be very nice!--Whom have we to dinner to-day?”

“Why, you must know as well as I do, my dear.”

“Ah! _bigre!_ I really believe that I have a pain in my stomach.”

“Oh dear! that would be the last straw.”

“No, it’s nothing, it’s going away; I was in a constrained position.”

“We expect to dinner Monsieur and Madame Dufournelle; Madame Dufournelle
wants to act; she will be terribly awkward on the stage, I fancy, but
that’s her business!”

“She is graceful and pretty, and I believe that she will make a success
of it.”

“Oh! that’s just like a man! to call that woman pretty, just because she
is always laughing, and because she is a great flirt; indeed she
carries it so far sometimes as to be almost indecent in her behavior
with men!”

“Upon my word, Lolotte! where did you see that?”

“I have seen it more than once; and in our own house, in the country,
with you, when she asked you to run after her and defied you to catch
her! Monsieur ran like a deer, and then you both disappeared behind a
hedge.--You had no pain in your stomach that day!”

“Madame! really, you should not say such things; your daughter can hear
you.”

“My daughter will be married some day, monsieur, and there’s no harm in
her being warned beforehand of the perfidy of the male sex. Besides,
Madame Dufournelle’s coquetry is evident to everybody. Her husband sees
nothing in all that! Poor fellow! so long as he has somebody to play
billiards with him, he doesn’t care about anything else.”

“He isn’t jealous, madame, and he is very wise; that proves that he has
some intelligence.”

“Ah! you think that, do you? I have known husbands of much intelligence
who were as jealous as tigers! Say rather that that fat Dufournelle is
not in love with his wife. Indeed, he’s too fat to be amorous.”

“Mon Dieu! what spiteful creatures women are! If a man is not jealous,
it’s because he doesn’t love them.--I suppose you’d like me to be
jealous, madame?”

“You, Edouard! Merciful heaven! that’s all you need,--to have that
disease, with all those which you think you have! that would be the
climax!”

“Say! suppose we play _Les B--b--bains à Do--do--domicile_?” cried
Eolinde, who was still looking over the plays. “I would be Ninie.”

“My dear girl, do you intend to take all the parts in the plays we
give?” said Monsieur Glumeau, admiring his feet. “It seems to me that if
you take one part, that will be quite enough; with your defective
speech, you know very well that you make plays last an hour longer than
they should, and you have a perfect mania for choosing long parts! The
last time we gave _Andromache_ everybody thought that your scene with
Orestes would never end!”

“Because it was in ve--verse, papa, which is harder for me to
pro--pronounce. But when it is p--p--prose, it goes all by itself.”

“So I see! But why in the deuce did you insist on giving a tragedy,
then?”

“Oh! my dear, they were quite right!” said Madame Glumeau; “for I assure
you that they were enough to make you die of laughter, and you yourself
in Pylades,--bless my soul! how fine you were!”

“Madame, you always take everything wrong. I played Pylades very nicely,
and if it hadn’t been for my helmet, that kept falling down over my eyes
and prevented me from seeing the audience, I should have made a very
good impression.”

“Why, you did make a splendid impression, my friend! you looked like a
blind man, and that was much more amusing!”

“You are very satirical, my dear love; it is very easy to see that you
don’t act!”

“If I acted in private theatricals, I should never lose my temper if
people laughed at me.”

“What will you do with Monsieur Dufournelle?”

“He will prompt, that’s his forte! he puffs[B] all the time like an
ox!--We also expect little Kingerie; he’s a very good fellow; he does
whatever anyone wants him to; he takes whatever parts you give him.”

[B] The same word--_souffler_--means to prompt, and to blow or puff.

“Mamma, have you noticed that Monsieur Kingerie has an entirely
different voice when he sings, from the one he has when he talks?”

“That’s true, but it’s very lucky for him; when he talks, he always
sounds as if he were hoarse; whereas, when he sings, he has a little
clear, flutelike voice, so shrill that it is hard to believe that it is
he who is singing.--Then we shall have Monsieur Camuzard and his
daughter, Mademoiselle Polymnie, who also wants to act.”

“You must give her a part; she’s a very handsome woman, tall and
well-built and stylish!”

“She did her little s--s--soubrette part very badly the l--l--last time,
although she had only a few words to say: ‘M--m--madame, the company is
below in the salon’; and she said: ‘Madame, the s--s--salon is below in
the c--c--company!’”

“That was because her tongue slipped! But it doesn’t make it any the
less true that Mademoiselle Polymnie looks very well on the stage.”

“Her nose is too big!”

“Big noses do very well on the stage. Besides, I tell you again,
daughter, that I desire to be polite to Monsieur Camuzard, and I know
that it gives him great pleasure when his daughter acts.” And Monsieur
Glumeau added, with a glance at his wife: “We must try to make Astianax
act a lover’s part, and let Mademoiselle Polymnie be the sweetheart. You
understand my ideas and my plans, don’t you, Lolotte?”

“Yes, monsieur, they are not hard to understand. Mademoiselle Camuzard
would be an excellent match, I know; but Astianax is still so young!”

“I married very young myself, madame, and I have never repented it.”

“Ah! that’s the nicest thing you have said to-day!”

“It seems to me that I say nice things very often; but you don’t notice
them because you are used to them.--This tea has done me good; I feel as
light as a bird; I would like to dance a mazurka.--Speaking of dancing,
Eolinde, have you practised on your piano the new quadrilles that I
brought you?”

“Oh! they are too hard.”

“No, mademoiselle, it’s because you don’t choose to take the pains to
study; and you are all the more wrong in that, because everybody plays
the piano now; young men and young girls, everybody knows how to play
for dancing; the young woman who did not know how to play a quadrille in
company would be looked upon as a savage, as a Hottentot!”

“I know very well that everybody pl--plays the piano now. The
c--c--concierge’s daughter plays it; and the other day the
l--l--locksmith who c--c--came to fix a lock which wouldn’t l--l--lock,
said when he heard me pl--playing: ‘I play the piano myself Sundays,
when I have time.’--Isn’t that so, mamma?”

“It’s the truth; indeed I was tempted to say to the locksmith that he
ought to put over his shop door: ‘Bells hung with piano accompaniment!’”

“In fact, papa, the p--p--piano has become such a common
inst--st--strument, that I would rather play something else.”

“What, I should like to know?”

“Why, the little flute, for example.”

“You are mad, Eolinde; it would be very pretty to see a young lady
playing on the flute! Wind instruments are exclusively for men.”

“Why is that, papa?”

“Why, because, as Apollo played the flute when he kept flocks, and as
that god was the god of melody, the pipes and the flute--By the way,
Lolotte, I hope you told Chambourdin to come; he’s a very pleasant
fellow, a leader in all sorts of fun, always merry and a true sport. He
will act, and I’ll wager that he’ll be most amusing!”

“Don’t you know, monsieur, that we can’t rely on your Chambourdin? You
know very well that he never keeps his word; when he promises to come,
that’s the end of it. If we relied on him to take a part, he would
spoil the whole performance. But we shall have Monsieur Mangeot and his
sister; they are obliging and agreeable. Monsieur Mangeot takes the part
of clowns and mimics very well; he plays carefully and always knows his
part, and so does his sister.”

“True, but as his sister is extremely hard of hearing, she always has to
stand within two steps of the prompter, which is a great nuisance for
the action of the play; and sometimes too she talks at the same time
that her opposite is talking.--_Bigre!_ here comes that pain in the
stomach again. What can it be? Did we have mushrooms yesterday,
Lolotte?”

“Mushrooms? there were some in the vol-au-vent we had; but everybody ate
some of it, and it didn’t make anybody sick.”

“That doesn’t prove anything; sometimes it doesn’t show itself until
late; Eolinde, you haven’t a pain in your stomach, have you?”

“On the contrary, papa.”

“What do you mean by on the contrary; you either have a pain, or----”

“No, s--s--since I--I say on the c--c--contrary!”

“My child, your answers are very foolish.--If this doesn’t go away, I
will tell the maid to prepare me an enema of marshmallow.”

“Please remember that the maid is getting her dinner ready; she is
looking after her kitchen fire, and how do you suppose that she can
leave that to make you an enema?”

“I don’t care for that; if I am ill, it seems to me that it is more
important to take care of me than to get the dinner.”

“But, monsieur, we have ten people to dinner, and it’s after four
o’clock.”

“Then, madame, go and prepare it for me yourself.”

“Mon Dieu! just for a paltry pain in the stomach! Often it doesn’t
amount to anything; go--somewhere, monsieur, and it will pass away.”

“I shall not go anywhere, madame, because I have no desire to.”

“Papa, suppose we should play _Pourceaugnac_?”

“Hold your tongue, my child; you tire me!”

“Dear me, Eolinde!” said Madame Glumeau with a sigh, “why should we play
_Pourceaugnac_ on our little stage; we play it often enough in our
family, as well as _Le Malade Imaginaire_!”

Monsieur Glumeau was about to reply to his wife when the bell rang.

“Company! company already!” cried stout Lolotte, “and I haven’t finished
dressing!”

“And my enema, madame! I must have it!” said her husband in an altered
voice.

“No doubt it’s my brother,” replied tall Eolinde in her turn; “it isn’t
worth while to put ourselves in such a flurry for him!”




XI

THE ELUSIVE REMEDY


But the salon door opened, and Monsieur Dufournelle and his wife
appeared.

Monsieur Dufournelle was a stout party of forty-five, with a jovial face
which denoted a frank and hearty disposition. His wife, who was hardly
thirty, was pretty, had a good figure, and laughed all the time; it is
needless to say that she had fine teeth; if they had been ugly she would
not have laughed on all occasions.

“Good afternoon, my friends!” said Monsieur Dufournelle, with an “ouf!”
which sent the sheets of music scattered over the piano flying about the
room. “We have come early; it’s bad form, but we don’t care for
that!--You are all well, my dear friends?”

“Very well--extremely well! It is so nice of you to come early!” said
Madame Glumeau, dissembling a slight grimace.

“I remarked to my husband,” rejoined the lady with the fine teeth, “that
perhaps it would be discourteous for us to come before five o’clock; but
he replied that we didn’t stand on ceremony with you.”

“And he was right, he was quite right!” said Monsieur Glumeau, pressing
one of his hands to his stomach; then he turned to his daughter and
muttered: “The devil take them! I want my enema!”

“Besides, we have lots of things to talk about,” said Madame
Dufournelle; “aren’t we to distribute the parts to-day for our
performance?--Ha! ha! what fun it will be! I have never acted, but I am
looking forward to it. Ha! ha!”

“Would you believe that my wife hasn’t talked about anything else for a
fortnight, and I have to take her to the theatre every night, because
she claims that that is like giving her lessons! One day she tries to
imitate Scriwaneck, another time Mademoiselle Fargueil; then it’s Aline
Duval whom she tries to mimic, or else pretty Alphonsine, or Grassot.”

“Oh! really, Monsieur Dufournelle, what are you talking about? Imitate
Grassot indeed! do you suppose that I mean to take men’s parts? Ha! ha!
ha!”

“I don’t know, but I assure you that you caught some of Grassot’s
intonations when you were rehearsing--I don’t know what rôle.--But where
is our dear little Astianax? aren’t we to see him?”

“Yes, indeed, you will see him; he should be at home before this; I
don’t know where he can have gone.”

“I’ll bet that he’s gone to get a b--b--bouquet for p--p--papa.”

“A bouquet! what! it can’t be that it’s Glumeau’s birthday?”

“Why, isn’t this Saint-Honoré’s day?”

“Sapristi! and we never thought of it, Eléonore?”

“That is true, my dear; we are very thoughtless!”

“All the same, my dear friend, I wish you many happy returns; the
bouquet will come later!”

“Thanks! thanks!” replied Glumeau, with a significant glance at his
wife. “At this moment, a bouquet isn’t what I want.”

“I must go and complete my toilet,” said the buxom Lolotte, answering
her husband’s signs with a wink. “You will excuse me, won’t you?”

“Excuse you? why, of course.”

“Yes, go and do--do what you have to do!” cried Glumeau, staring at his
feet with a distressed expression. “And I will come too.”

“You see, we came too early!” said Madame Dufournelle; “we are in the
way.”

“Why, not at all! you see that we do not stand on ceremony.”

As Madame Glumeau was about to leave the salon, the door opened, and an
old and exceedingly ugly man in blue spectacles entered, escorting a
tall and well-built young lady, dressed with affected elegance, and
endowed with one of those faces that never change.

“Monsieur and Mademoiselle Camuzard!” cried Madame Glumeau, turning back
to welcome the newcomers. “How good of you to come early! Pray come
in.--Edouard, here are Monsieur Camuzard and Mademoiselle Polymnie.”

Edouard had gone to examine his complexion in the mirror; when he saw
that more guests had arrived, he uttered a hollow groan, then did his
utmost to assume a smiling countenance, saying to himself:

“I shall never be able to take my enema! this is getting to be very
alarming!”

Mademoiselle Polymnie had in her hand a huge bouquet, which she
presented to Glumeau, saying:

“Monsieur, will you allow me to wish you a happy birthday?”

“To be sure, mademoiselle, with the greatest pleasure; I am deeply
touched. What a superb bouquet! You are too kind.”

“Sapristi! how sorry I am that we didn’t bring one!” exclaimed
Dufournelle again, while his wife laughed heartily as she looked at the
pictures on the music and at Mademoiselle Camuzard.

“How is your health, my dear Glumeau?” inquired the old gentleman,
shaking his host’s hand violently.

“Very good, Monsieur Camuzard; my health is very fair, although it isn’t
all that I could wish.”

“Are you in pain?--I have pains in my knees and arms; and it keeps
catching me here, you see, and extends all the way down my back.”

“It’s not my back that troubles me, it’s----”

“And then I cough a great deal every morning when I wake up; there are
days when I have regular paroxysms.”

“I don’t cough, but----”

“And then I expectorate very freely! Oh! I don’t try to stop that--it
does me good.”

“This is not a very amusing conversation!” said Madame Dufournelle in an
undertone to her husband; he frowned at his wife, to enjoin silence upon
her, whereupon she went to Mademoiselle Eolinde.

“Well!” she said, “what are we to act? have you decided on the plays?
What part are you going to give me? I want a pretty costume.”

“You see how co--co--coquettish she is!” said Mademoiselle Glumeau,
turning to her mother; “the co--costume is the first th--th--thing she
th--thinks of.”

“We haven’t yet decided on the whole entertainment,” said Madame
Glumeau; “we are waiting until our whole troupe has arrived.”

“If you need me,” said Monsieur Camuzard, “don’t hesitate; I’ll play any
small part, or a utility rôle.”

“It’s to be hoped that we shall not need him!” whispered Madame
Dufournelle to her husband; “he’s altogether too hideous; he looks like
a bird of prey.”

“Hush, Eléonore, I beg you.”

“My dear love, pray go and attend to what you have to do,” said Monsieur
Glumeau, looking at his wife. “Our friends will excuse you; they know
that the mistress of the house always has orders to give.”

“Do go, dear lady; your charming daughter is here to do the honors, you
know.”

“Since you are good enough to excuse me--I have something to attend to.”

“Would you like me to come and help you?” inquired Madame Dufournelle;
“dispose of me.”

“Oh, no! you are too kind; I don’t need any help for what I have to do;
I will return in a moment.”

And the mistress of the house was once more on the point of leaving the
room, when the door opened again to admit two other guests, a gentleman
and a lady, both of mature years, who came forward smiling pleasantly at
the company.

“Monsieur and Mademoiselle Mangeot!” exclaimed Madame Glumeau, who was
obliged to step back as she curtsied, because the newcomers came
straight toward her. “How very good of you to come early!”

“Why, you said five o’clock, and it is just about to strike the hour,”
replied the gentleman, bowing low. “I am as exact as a pendulum; I
hurried my sister who, I thought, would never finish arranging her hair;
I always dread being late.”

“Yes, my brother wanted to ride,” said Mademoiselle Mangeot, “but I
reminded him that we should arrive sooner on foot than in an
omnibus.--Will you allow me to wish you a happy birthday, Monsieur
Glumeau?”

And the middle-aged damsel, producing a pretty little bouquet of
_pompon_ roses, which she had under her shawl, presented it to Glumeau,
who smelt it, making a peculiar face, and replied:

“Really, mademoiselle, you overwhelm me--_pompon_ roses!”

“You are fond of them, I believe?”

“Oh, yes! I am very fond of them--but not too hot.”

“What! are there such things as hot bouquets?”

“Oh! I beg pardon, mademoiselle, I made a mistake; I meant to say that
it would give me great pleasure to take it now.”

“Why, take it then, monsieur; as you see, I am offering it to you for
that purpose.”

“To be sure--excuse me--I am absent-minded; I do take it--that is to
say, yes, I accept these lovely roses.”

“You take them awkwardly; you will prick yourself; you should let me put
them in myself.”

“Put them where, pray?”

“Why, in your buttonhole.”

“Sapristi! how annoyed I am that I didn’t bring a bouquet!” repeated
stout Dufournelle; and Mademoiselle Eolinde, overhearing him, muttered
between her teeth:

“He s--s--says that every year, but he n--n--never brings one.”

“My dear Monsieur Glumeau,” said Monsieur Mangeot, stepping forward to
shake hands with the master of the house, who seemed determined to keep
his hands pressed against his abdomen, “pray accept my good wishes also,
and may I be able to offer them again a hundred years hence.--That’s not
a new idea, but it’s always good!--And the dear boy, the charming
Astianax, where is he, pray?”

“I can’t imagine!” said Madame Glumeau; “to think of his not being here
yet--to-day of all days! Really, I am beginning to be anxious.”

“You know, mamma, that my b--b--brother was going to order a
b--b--bouquet full of meaning; no d--d-doubt--no doubt that is what is
k--k--keeping him.”

“What on earth is a bouquet with a meaning?” inquired Monsieur Camuzard.

“It’s a _selam_, monsieur.”

“Ah! and what might a _selam_ be?”

“It’s a bouquet with a meaning.”

“Excellent!”

“When a man has a daughter named Polymnie, he ought to be more learned,”
said Madame Dufournelle laughingly to Mademoiselle Mangeot; and she,
being a little hard of hearing, replied:

“Yes, I think it will be fine.”

Meanwhile Madame Glumeau, noticing her husband’s repeated signals,
determined to leave the salon without asking leave of the latest comers.
And fearing that other guests might arrive to detain her, she made her
escape by a door leading to her bedroom.

When he saw his wife disappear, Monsieur Glumeau uttered an exclamation
of satisfaction which was drowned by the arrival of Monsieur Kingerie,
the young man who did whatever anyone desired. He was a little fellow,
who always acted as if he were ashamed of himself; on entering the room,
he began by blushing to the ears, ran into a chair that was between
himself and the master of the house when he attempted to salute him, and
as he rose after picking up the chair, he ran his head into Monsieur
Glumeau’s stomach. That gentleman uttered a savage oath, while the
timid Kingerie, distressed beyond words at what he had done, hastily
stepped back and trod on Mademoiselle Mangeot’s foot; and as she was
afflicted with corns, she pushed the awkward youth violently away,
whereupon he collided with Monsieur Camuzard, causing his spectacles to
fall off.

Madame Dufournelle laughed until she cried, saying to her husband:

“Pray stop that gentleman or he will upset the whole company.”

They got young Kingerie seated at last; he was at a loss to apologize
for his awkwardness and seemed disposed to weep; but, luckily for him,
other guests arrived, so that he ceased to monopolize the attention.

First, there was a gentleman of very attractive appearance and with a
distinguished air, whom they called Monsieur de Merval; he entered the
salon with the ease of manner born of familiarity with good society,
saluted one and all without knocking anybody down, and shook hands with
Monsieur Glumeau without hitting him in the stomach. Although Monsieur
de Merval was no longer a young man, he was still most attractive; which
was proved by the fact that when he entered the salon, all the ladies,
young and old, drew themselves up, and composed their features and their
bearing; you will never see a woman do all that for a man who is not
worth the trouble.

Monsieur Glumeau, who seemed to have much consideration for Monsieur de
Merval, forgot for a moment the remedy he was awaiting, to say to him
some of those courteous phrases which people exchange in society, as we
exchange silver for small coins.

“I do not see madame,” replied the newcomer, after paying his respects
to Mademoiselle Eolinde.

“Mamma will be here d--d--directly; she has g--g--gone to pre--pre----”

“My wife has gone to see if dinner will be served soon,” hastily
interposed Monsieur Glumeau. “The master’s eye, you know, or rather the
mistress’s, is always indispensable when one entertains a few friends.”

“And your son?”

“My son--I can’t understand his absence; he should have been here long
ago; something has happened----”

“P--p--papa, I think I hear my b--b--brother’s voice in the
d--d--dining-room; he’s with Monsieur Cha--Chambourdin.”

“That’s very fortunate; we shall know in a minute what has detained
him.”--And Monsieur Glumeau whispered in his daughter’s ear: “Go and see
if your mother has prepared--you know what. I must have it.”

“But p--p--papa, I c--c--can’t--can’t leave the s--s--salon n--now; that
would l--l--leave only you with the g--g--guests, and you’re not very
b--b--brilliant.”

“Parbleu! you must come in with me, you rascal!” exclaimed a young man,
the possessor of a comely face, but with an absolutely bald head, who
entered the salon at that moment, dragging young Astianax, who had his
hands over the rents in his trousers.

“Mesdames and messieurs, I have the honor to present a young man who was
scampering upstairs, without stopping at his worthy father’s door; but I
seized him on the wing, saying: ‘My dear boy, it is too late to go up to
your room; the paternal arms await you and the soup must be
served.’--Still, he wouldn’t come, and you see now how he objects to
coming in.”

“What does this mean, my son?” inquired Monsieur Glumeau, after shaking
the hand that Chambourdin offered him. “Why do you stand there at the
door and not come in?”

“Excuse me, father--allow me to go up to my room a moment; I will come
right down again; it is impossible for me to face our guests at this
moment.”

“What! impossible? why, you’re facing them now.”

“And I don’t see that the boy is dressed like a wild Indian, either!”
said Chambourdin, as he saluted the ladies.

“My dear good father, I assure you that I have something on that is--is
not presentable.”

“Mon Dieu! c--c--can it be that my b--b--brother has the same trouble as
p--p--papa?” said tall Eolinde to herself; “does he want one t--t--too?”

Monsieur Glumeau, who had had the same thought as his daughter, dared
say nothing more; but the bald youth, who was in the habit of playing
jokes in company, and who was very unceremonious wherever he went, crept
noiselessly behind the son of the house, and, giving him a sharp push,
forced him to pitch forward into the salon; and in that movement
Monsieur Astianax was obliged to remove his hands from his knees, thus
disclosing the two rents; whereupon everybody uttered an exclamation of
surprise.

“Great heaven!”

“Ah! the poor fellow!”

“Both knees torn! he must have fallen.”

“You fell, didn’t you?”

“How does it happen, my son, that those trousers, which are almost new,
are torn on both knees?”

“Well! now you know why I didn’t want to come in--you see that I was
right. Am I presentable like this?”

“But, my son----”

“It is I who am to blame for everything!” cried Chambourdin; “I forced
him to disclose his disaster. Strictly, I ought to lend him some
trousers, but as I believe he has another pair, I prefer that he should
wear his own.--Go, hapless victim of a slippery sidewalk, but don’t be
long! something tells me that the soup is not far away.”

Little Astianax disappeared, and Monsieur Glumeau would have been glad
to do as much, but his guests surrounded him and talked to him; he was
hemmed in on all sides.

“Everybody must have come, is it not so, my dear friend?” said
Chambourdin, offering him snuff in one of those snuff-boxes known as
_rat-tails_.

“No, indeed, and it’s very lucky--otherwise there would be thirteen of
us,” replied Glumeau, writhing about as inoffensively as possible.

“Thirteen! I had just as soon sit thirteen at table. Truffles,
champagne, chambertin and thirteen at table every day--I’ll subscribe
for that if I don’t have to pay in advance.”

“Or if you don’t have to pay afterward, perhaps?” said Monsieur
Dufournelle.

“Oh! what a spiteful thing to say, big Dufournelle! How fat the fellow
is growing! If he keeps on he won’t be able to go into any house;
partitions of decent dimensions no longer conceal him--he will have to
have some made expressly for him.”

“Hold your tongue, advocate without causes!”

“I an advocate? Oh! I have abandoned the profession; I wasn’t loquacious
enough, and then I was too good a fellow. I settled disputes on the
instant. I induced the parties to dine together and I dined with them;
we all got tipsy; after dinner they embraced and that was the end of
their litigation. My confrères begged me to give up practice--I was
ruining the profession.”

“Whom else do you expect, Monsieur Glumeau?” inquired Monsieur Camuzard.

“A lady--a charming lady--not very young, but very good-looking still.”

“And her name?”

“The Baronne de Grangeville.”

“A baroness! the deuce! a real baroness?”

“I never knew a sham one.”

“I was joking.--Is she married?”

“No, she’s a widow.”

“Oho! a widow, eh? And rich?”

“I believe that she is very rich.--But I beg pardon--I have to say a
word to my daughter.”

“I can’t conceive what your mother is doing!” said Glumeau in his
daughter’s ear. “I can’t remain in this plight. Something must have
happened to the instrument. Go and see, Eolinde, and urge your mother to
make haste.”

Mademoiselle Eolinde was sorely vexed to be obliged to leave the
company; she went out of the room with a sulky expression, and without
acknowledging the fifth bow that young Kingerie addressed to her.

“Something out of the natural course is going on here,” said Madame
Dufournelle to her husband; “Madame Glumeau goes out and does not
return; the son’s trousers are all torn, and he disappears; the daughter
has left the salon in a pet; Monsieur Glumeau stands first on one leg,
then on the other; he frowns and doesn’t pay any attention to the
conversation. There certainly is something wrong!”

“Some dish spoiled, or some entrée from the restaurant that hasn’t come,
perhaps; or rather, they are making great preparations to receive this
baroness whom they expect.”

“Nonsense! really? a baroness of what?”

“What do you say? a baroness of what?--A baroness, that’s all I know.”

“And that’s why these ladies leave us like this! Aren’t we as good as a
baroness, I should like to know?”

“Hush, Eléonore!”

“Bah! I don’t care a snap of my finger for their baroness!”

“It’s after half-past five,” said Monsieur Mangeot to his sister; “I
trust they will give us some dinner soon; I am half starved!”

“I fancy that you have time to tighten your waistband; they are
expecting a baroness, so Monsieur Camuzard told us just now.”

“Oho! confound it! I must admit that at this moment I would much rather
see a stuffed turkey than a baroness. They are capable of making us wait
till six o’clock. I don’t know anything more intolerable than not to
give your guests their dinner at the appointed time. If you mean to dine
at half-past six, don’t invite me at five; for otherwise, I would make
my arrangements accordingly and take something to stay my stomach.--Ah!
the door opens--it is the long-desired baroness, no doubt.”

“No, it’s Madame Glumeau coming back.”

The buxom Lolotte had, in fact, reappeared in the salon; she tried to
catch her husband’s eye, but she was obliged to stop and welcome the
guests who had arrived during her absence. She had much ado to get rid
of Monsieur Chambourdin, who embraced her, and of young Kingerie, who
trod on her dress. At last she succeeded in joining Edouard, whose
contortions were becoming alarming, and whispered to him:

“It’s all ready in your dressing-room.”

Glumeau’s face beamed.

“Go, my dear,” his wife added aloud, “and see if the ta

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41299