"You are right. I shall go and inspect the spot at once. A hundred beauties! I declare the advertisement might have been framed to meet my wants. How fortunate that you chanced to see it! To-morrow evening you shall hear the result—dine with me at the Bel Avenir at eight o'clock. For one occasion I undertake to go a buster, I should be lacking in gratitude if I neglected to stuff you to the brim."
"Oh, my dear chap!" said Tricotrin. "The invitation is a godsend, I have not viewed the inside of a restaurant for a week. While our pal Pitou is banqueting with his progenitors in Chartres,Ihave even exhausted my influence with the fishmonger—I did not so much as see my way to a nocturnal herring in the garret. Mind you are not late. I shall come prepared to do justice to your hospitality, I promise you."
"Right, cocky!" said the artist. And he set forth, in high spirits, to investigate the rue Baba.
He was gratified to discover a café in convenient proximity to the office. And twelve o'clock had not sounded next day when he took a seat at one of the little white-topped tables, his gaze bent attentively upon the agent's step.
For the earliest arrival he had not long to wait. A dumpy girl with an enormous nose approached, swinging hersac à main. She cast a complacent glance at the name on the door, opened the bag, whipped out a powder-puff, and vanished.
"Morbleu!" thought the painter. "If she is a fair sample, I have squandered the price of a bock!" He remained in a state of depression for two or three minutes, and then the girl reappeared, evidently in a very bad temper.
"Ah!" he mused, rubbing his hands. "Monsieur Lavalette is plainly a person of his word. No beauty, no engagement! This is going to be all right, Where is the next applicant? A sip to Venus!"
Venus, however, did not irradiate the street yet. The second young woman was too short in the back, and at sight of her features he shook his head despondently. "No good, my dear," he said to himself. "Little as you suspect it, there is a disappointment for you inside, word of honour! Within three minutes, I shall behold you again."
And, sure enough, she made her exit promptly, looking as angry as the other.
"I am becoming a dramatic prophet!" soliloquised Goujaud; "if I had nothing more vital to do, I might win drinks, betting on their chances, with the proprietor of the café. However, I grow impatient for the bevy of beauty—it is a long time on the road."
As if in obedience to his demand, girls now began to trip into the rue Baba so rapidly that he was kept busy regarding them. By twos, and threes, and in quartettes they tripped—tall girls, little girls, plain girls, pretty girls, girls shabby, and girls chic. But though many of them would have made agreeable partners at a dance, there was none who possessed the necessary qualifications for The Girl on Satan's Knee. He rolled a cigarette, and blew a pessimistic puff. "Another day lost!" groaned Goujaud. "All is over, I feel it. Posterity will never praise my poster, the clutch of Commerce is upon me—already the smell of the pétrole is in my nostrils!"
And scarcely had he said it when his senses reeled.
For, stepping from a cab, disdainfully, imperially, was his Ideal. Her hair, revealing the lobes of the daintiest ears that ever listened to confessions of love, had the gleam of purple grapes. Her eyes were a mystery, her mouth was a flower, her neck was an intoxication. So violently was the artist affected that, during several moments, he forgot his motive for being there. To be privileged merely to contemplate her was an ecstasy. While he sat transfixed with admiration, her dainty foot graced the agent's step, and she entered.
Goujaud caught his breath, and rose. The cab had been discharged. Dared he speak to her when she came out? It would be a different thing altogether from speaking to the kind of girl that he had foreseen. But to miss such a model for lack of nerve, that would be the regret of a lifetime! Now the prospect of the poster overwhelmed him, and he felt that he would risk any rebuff, commit any madness to induce her to "sit."
The estimate that he had, by this time, formed of monsieur Lavalette's taste convinced him that her return would not be yet. He sauntered to and fro, composing a preliminary and winning phrase. What was his surprise, after a very few seconds, to see that she had come out already, and was hastening away!
He overtook her in a dozen strides, and with a bow that was eloquent of his homage, exclaimed:
"Mademoiselle!"
"Hein?" she said, turning. "Oh, it's all right—there are too many people there; I've changed my mind, I shan't wait."
He understood that she took him for a minion of the agent's, and he hesitated whether to correct her mistake immediately. However, candour seemed the better course.
"I do not bring a message from monsieur Lavalette, mademoiselle," he explained.
"No?"
"No."
"What then?"
"I have ventured to address you on my own account—on a matter of the most urgent importance."
"I have no small change," she said curtly, making to pass.
"Mademoiselle!" His outraged dignity was superb. "You mistake me first for an office-boy, and then for a beggar. I am a man of means, though my costume may be unconventional. My name is Théodosc Goujaud."
Her bow intimated that the name was not significant; but her exquisite eyes had softened at the reference to his means.
"For weeks I have been seeking a face for a picture that I have conceived," he went on; "a face of such peculiar beauty that I despaired of finding it! I had the joy to see you enter the agency, and I waited, trembling with the prayer that I might persuade you to come to my aid. Mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to allow me to reproduce the magic of your features on my canvas? I entreat it of you in the sacred name of Art!"
During this appeal, the lady's demeanour had softened more still. A faint smile hovered on her lips; her gaze was half gratified, half amused.
"Oh, you're a painter?" she said; "you want me to sit to you for theSalon? I don't know, I'm sure."
"It is not precisely for the Salon," he acknowledged. "But I am absorbed by the scheme—it will be the crown of my career. I will explain. It is a long story. If—if we could sit down?"
"Where?"
"There appears to be a café close to the agency," said Goujaud timidly.
"Oh!" She dismissed the café's pretensions with her eyebrows.
"You are right," he stammered. "Now that I look at it again, I see that it is quite a common place. Well, will you permit me to walk a little way with you?"
"We will go to breakfast at Armenonville, if you like," she said graciously, "where you can explain to me at your leisure." It seemed to Goujaud that his heart dropped into his stomach and turned to a cannon-ball there. Armenonville? What would such a breakfast cost? Perhaps a couple of louis? Never in his life had he contemplated breakfasting at Armenonville.
She smiled, as if taking his consent for granted. Her loveliness and air of fashion confused him dreadfully. And if he made excuses, there would be no poster! Oh, he must seize the chance at any price!
"Oh course—I shall be enchanted," he mumbled. And before he half realised that the unprecedented thing had happened they were rattling away, side by side in a fiacre.
It was astounding, it was breathless, it was an episode out of a novel! But Goujaud felt too sick, in thinking of the appalling expense, to enjoy his sudden glory. Accustomed to a couple of louis providing meals for three weeks, he was stupefied by the imminence of scattering the sum in a brief half-hour. Even the cab fare weighed upon him; he not infrequently envied the occupants of omnibuses.
It was clear that the lady herself was no stranger to the restaurant. While he blinked bewildered on the threshold, she was referring to her "pet table," and calling a waiter "Jules." The menu was a fresh embarrassment to the bohemian, but she, and the deferential waiter, relieved him of that speedily, and in five minutes an epicurean luncheon had been ordered, and he was gulping champagne.
It revived his spirits. Since he had tumbled into the adventure of his life, by all means let him savour the full flavour of it! His companion's smiles had become more frequent, her eyes were more transcendental still.
"How funnily things happen!" she remarked presently. "I had not the least idea of calling on Lavalette when I got up this morning. If I had not had a tiff with somebody, and decided to go on the stage to spite him, I should never have met you."
"Oh, you are not on the stage yet, then?"
"No. But I have often thought about it, and the quarrel determined me. So I jumped into a cab, drove off, and then—well, there was such a crowd of girls there, and they looked so vulgar; I changed my mind."
"Can an angel quarrel?" demanded Goujaud sentimentally. "I cannot imagine you saying an angry word to anyone."
"Oh!" she laughed. "Can't I, though! I'm a regular demon when I'm cross. People shouldn't vex me."
"Certainly not," he agreed. "And no one but a brute would do so. Besides, some women are attractive even in a rage. On the whole, I think I should like to see you in a rage withme, providing always that you 'made it up' as nicely as I should wish."
"Do you fancy that I could?" she asked, looking at the table-cloth.
"My head swims, in fancying!"
Her laughter rippled again, and her fascination was so intense that the poor fellow could scarcely taste a mouthful of his unique repast. "Talk to me," she commanded, "sensibly I mean! Where do you live?"
"I am living in the rue Ravignan."
"The rue Ravignan? Where is that?"
"Montmartre."
"Oh, really?" She seemed chilled. "It is not a very nice quarter in the daytime, is it?"
"My studio suits me," murmured Goujaud, perceiving his fall in her esteem. "For that reason I am reluctant to remove. An artist becomes very much attached to his studio. And what do I care for fashion, I? You may judge by my coat!"
"You're eccentric, aren't you?"
"Hitherto I have lived only for Art. But now I begin to realise that there may be something more potent and absorbing still."
"What is that?"
"Love!" added Goujaud, feeling himself the embodiment of all the heroes of romance.
"Oh?" Her glance mocked, encouraged. "I am dying to hear about your picture, though! What is the subject?"
"It is not exactly what you mean by a 'picture.'" He fiddled with his glass. "It is, in fact, a poster that I project."
"A poster?" she exclaimed. "And you askmeto—oh, no, I couldn't possibly!"
"Mademoiselle!"
"I really don't think I could. A poster? Ah, no!"
"To save me!" he implored. "Because my whole life depends on your decision!"
"How can a poster matter so much to you? The proposal is absurd." She regarded her pêche Melba with a frown.
"If you think of becoming an actress, remember what a splendid advertisement it would be!" he urged feverishly.
"Oh, flûte!" But she had wavered at that.
"All Paris would flock to your debut. They would go saying, 'Can she be as beautiful as her portrait?' And they would come back saying, 'She is lovelier still!' Let me give you some more wine."
"No more; I'll have coffee, and a grand marnier—red."
"Doubtless the more expensive colour!" reflected Goujaud. But the time had passed for dwelling on minor troubles. "Listen," he resumed; "I shall tell you my history. You will then realise to what an abyss of despair your refusal will plunge me—to what effulgent heights I may be raised by your consent. You cannot be marble! My father—"
"Indeed, I am not marble," she put in. "I am instinct with sensibility —it is my great weakness."
"So much the better. Be weak tome. My father—"
"Oh, let us get out of this first!" she suggested, "You can talk to me as we drive."
And the attentive Jules presented the discreetly folded bill.
For fully thirty seconds the Pavilion d'Armenonville swirled round the unfortunate painter so violently that he felt as if he were on a roundabout at a fair. He feared that the siren must hear the pounding of his heart. To think that he had dreaded paying two louis! Two louis? Why, it would have been a bagatelle! Speechlessly he laid a fortune on the salver. With a culminating burst of recklessness he waved four francs towards Jules, and remarked that that personage eyed the tip with cold displeasure. "What a lucrative career, a waiter's!" moaned the artist; "he turns up his nose at four francs!"
Well, he had speculated too heavily to accept defeat now! Bracing himself for the effort, Goujaud besought the lady's help with such a flood of blandishment during the drive that more than once she seemed at the point of yielding. Only one difficult detail had he withheld— that he wished to pose her on the knee of Mephistopheles—and to propitiate her further, before breaking the news, he stopped the cab at a florist's.
She was so good-humoured and tractable after the florist had pillaged him that he could scarcely be callous when she showed him that she had split her glove. But, to this day, he protests that, until the glove-shop had been entered, it never occurred to him that it would be necessary to present her with more than one pair. As they came out— Goujaud moving beside her like a man in a trance—she gave a faint start.
"Mon Dieu!" she muttered. "There's my friend—he has seen us—I must speak to him, or he will think I am doing wrong. Wait a minute!" And a dandy, with a monocle, was, indeed, casting very supercilious glances at the painter.
At eight o'clock that evening, monsieur Tricotrin, with a prodigious appetite, sat in the Café du Bel Avenir, awaiting the arrival of his host. When impatience was mastering him, there arrived, instead, a petit bleu. The impecunious poet took it from the proprietress, paling, and read:
"I discovered my Ideal—she ruined, and then deserted me! To-morrow there will be a painter the less, and a petrole merchant the more. Pardon my non-appearance—I am spending my last sous on this message."
"Monsieur will give his order now?" inquired the proprietress.
"Er—thank you, I do not dine to-night," said Tricotrin.
In the summer of the memorable year ——, but the date doesn't matter,Robichon and Quinquart both paid court to mademoiselle Brouette,Mademoiselle Brouette was a captivating actress, Robichon and Quinquartwere the most comic of comedians, and all three were members of theThéâtre Suprême.
Robichon was such an idol of the public's that they used to laugh before he uttered the first word of his rôle; and Quinquart was so vastly popular that his silence threw the audience into convulsions.
Professional rivalry apart, the two were good friends, although they were suitors for the same lady, and this was doubtless due to the fact that the lady favoured the robust Robichon no more than she favoured the skinny Quinquart. She flirted with them equally, she approved them equally—and at last, when each of them had plagued her beyond endurance, she promised in a pet that she would marry the one that was the better actor. Tiens! Not a player on the stage, not a critic on the Press could quite make up his mind which the better actor was. Only Suzanne Brouette could have said anything so tantalising.
"But how shall we decide the point, Suzanne?" stammered Robichon helplessly. "Whose pronouncement will you accept?"
"How can the question be settled?" queried Quinquart, dismayed. "Who shall be the judge?"
"Paris shall be the judge," affirmed Suzanne. "We are the servants of the public—I will take the public's word!"
Of course she was as pretty as a picture, or she couldn't have done these things.
Then poor Quinquart withdrew, plunged in reverie. So did Robichon. Quinquart reflected that she had been talking through her expensive hat. Robichon was of the same opinion. The public lauded them both, was no less generous to one than to the other—to wait for the judgment of Paris appeared equivalent to postponing the mattersine die. No way out presented itself to Quinquart. None occurred to Robichon.
"Mon vieux," said the latter, as they sat on the terrace of their favourite café a day or two before the annual vacation, "let us discuss this amicably. Have a cigarette! You are an actor, therefore you consider yourself more talented than I. I, too, am an actor, therefore I regard you as less gifted than myself. So much for our artistic standpoints! But we are also men of the world, and it must be obvious to both of us that we might go on being funny until we reached our death-beds without demonstrating the supremacy of either. Enfin, our only hope lies in versatility—the conqueror must distinguish himself in a solemn part!" He viewed the other with complacence, for the quaint Quinquart had been designed for a droll by Nature.
"Right!" said Quinquart. He contemplated his colleague with satisfaction, for it was impossible to fancy the fat Robichon in tragedy.
"I perceive only one drawback to the plan," continued Robichon, "the Management will never consent to accord us a chance. Is it not always so in the theatre? One succeeds in a certain line of business and one must be resigned to play that line as long as one lives. If my earliest success had been scored as a villain of melodrama, it would be believed that I was competent to enact nothing but villains of melodrama; it happened that I made a hit as a comedian, wherefore nobody will credit that I am capable of anything but being comic."
"Same here!" concurred Quinquart. "Well, then, what do you propose?"
Robichon mused. "Since we shall not be allowed to do ourselves justice on the stage, we must find an opportunity off it!"
"A private performance? Good! Yet, if it is a private performance, how is Paris to be the judge?"
"Ah," murmured Robichon, "that is certainly a stumbling-block."
They sipped their apéritifs moodily. Many heads were turned towards the little table where they sat. "There are Quinquart and Robichon, how amusing they always are!" said passers-by, little guessing the anxiety at the laughter-makers' hearts.
"What's to be done?" sighed Quinquart at last.
Robichon shrugged his fat shoulders, with a frown.
Both were too absorbed to notice that, after a glance of recognition, one of the pedestrians had paused, and was still regarding them irresolutely. He was a tall, burly man, habited in rusty black, and the next moment, as if finding courage, he stepped forward and spoke:
"Gentlemen, I ask pardon for the liberty I take—impulse urges me to seek your professional advice! I am in a position to pay a moderate fee. Will you permit me to explain myself?"
"Monsieur," returned Robichon, "we are in deep consideration of our latest parts. We shall be pleased to give you our attention at some other time."
"Alas!" persisted the newcomer, "with me time presses. I, too, am considering my latest part—and it will be the only speaking part I have ever played, though I have been 'appearing' for twenty years."
"What? You have been a super for twenty years?" said Quinquart, with a grimace.
"No, monsieur," replied the stranger grimly. "I have been the public executioner; and I am going to lecture on the horrors of the post I have resigned."
The two comedians stared at him aghast. Across the sunlit terrace seemed to have fallen the black shadow of the guillotine.
"I am Jacques Roux," the man went on, "I am 'trying it on the dog' at Appeville-sous-Bois next week, and I have what you gentlemen call 'stage fright'—I, who never knew what nervousness meant before! Is it not queer? As often as I rehearse walking on to the platform, I feel myself to be all arms and legs—I don't know what to do with them. Formerly, I scarcely remembered my arms and legs; but, of course, my attention used to be engaged by the other fellow's head. Well, it struck me that you might consent to give me a few hints in deportment. Probably one lesson would suffice."
"Sit down," said Robichon. "Why did you abandon your official position?"
"Because I awakened to the truth," Roux answered. "I no longer agree with capital punishment: it is a crime that should be abolished."
"The scruples of conscience, hein?"
"That is it."
"Fine!" said Robichon. "What dramatic lines such a lecture might contain! And of what is it to consist?"
"It is to consist of the history of my life—my youth, my poverty, my experiences as Executioner, and my remorse."
"Magnificent!" said Robichon. "The spectres of your victims pursue you even to the platform. Your voice fails you, your eyes start from your head in terror. You gasp for mercy—and imagination splashes your outstretched hands with gore. The audience thrill, women swoon, strong men are breathless with emotion." Suddenly he smote the table with his big fist, and little Quinquart nearly fell off his chair, for he divined the inspiration of his rival. "Listen!" cried Robichon, "are you known at Appeville-sous-Bois?"
"My name is known, yes."
"Bah! I mean are you known personally, have you acquaintances there?"
"Oh, no. But why?"
"There will be nobody to recognize you?"
"It is very unlikely in such a place."
"What do you estimate that your profits will amount to?"
"It is only a small hall, and the prices are very cheap. Perhaps two hundred and fifty francs."
"And you are nervous, you would like to postpone your début?"
"I should not be sorry, I admit. But, again, why?"
"I will tell you why—I offer you five hundred francs to let me take your place!"
"Monsieur!"
"Is it a bargain?"
"I do not understand!"
"I have a whim to figure in a solemn part. You can explain next day that you missed your train—that you were ill, there are a dozen explanations that can be made; you will not be supposed to know that I personated you—the responsibility for that is mine. What do you say?"
"It is worth double the money," demurred the man.
"Not a bit of it! All the Press will shout the story of my practical joke—Paris will be astounded that I, Robichon, lectured as Jacques Roux and curdled an audience's blood. Millions will speak of your intended lecture tour who otherwise would never have heard of it. I am giving you the grandest advertisement, and paying you for it, besides. Enfin, I will throw a deportment lesson in! Is it agreed?"
"Agreed, monsieur!" said Roux.
Oh, the trepidation of Quinquart! Who could eclipse Robichon if his performance of the part equalled his conception of it? At the theatre that evening Quinquart followed Suzanne about the wings pathetically. He was garbed like a buffoon, but he felt like Romeo. The throng that applauded his capers were far from suspecting the romantic longings under his magenta wig. For the first time in his life he was thankful that the author hadn't given him more to do.
And, oh, the excitement of Robichon! He was to put his powers to a tremendous test, and if he made the effect that he anticipated he had no fear of Quinquart's going one better. Suzanne, to whom he whispered his project proudly, announced an intention of being present to "see the fun." Quinquart also promised to be there. Robichon sat up all night preparing his lecture.
If you wish to know whether Suzanne rejoiced at the prospect of his winning her, history is not definite on the point; but some chroniclers assert that at this period she made more than usual of Quinquart, who had developed a hump as big as the Panthéon.
And they all went to Appeville-sous-Bois.
Though no one in the town was likely to know the features of the Executioner, it was to be remembered that people there might know the actor's, and Robichon had made up to resemble Roux as closely as possible. Arriving at the humble hall, he was greeted by the lessee, heard that a "good house" was expected, and smoked a cigarette in the retiring-room while the audience assembled.
At eight o'clock the lessee reappeared.
"All is ready, monsieur Roux," he said.
Robichon rose.
He saw Suzanne and Quinquart in the third row, and was tempted to wink at them.
"Ladies and gentlemen—"
All eyes were riveted on him as he began; even the voice of the "Executioner" exercised a morbid fascination over the crowd. The men nudged their neighbours appreciatively, and women gazed at him, half horrified, half charmed.
The opening of his address was quiet enough—there was even a humorous element in it, as he narrated imaginary experiences of his boyhood. People tittered, and then glanced at one another with an apologetic air, as if shocked at such a monster's daring to amuse them. Suzanne whispered to Quinquart: "Too cheerful; he hasn't struck the right note." Quinquart whispered back gloomily: "Wait; he may be playing for the contrast!"
And Quinquart's assumption was correct. Gradually the cheerfulness faded from the speaker's voice, the humorous incidents were past. Gruesome, hideous, grew the anecdotes, The hall shivered. Necks were craned, and white faces twitched suspensively. He dwelt on the agonies of the Condemned, he recited crimes in detail, he mirrored the last moments before the blade fell. He shrieked his remorse, his lacerating remorse. "I am a murderer," he sobbed; and in the hall one might have heard a pin drop.
There was no applause when he finished—that set the seal on his success; he bowed and withdrew amid tense silence. Still none moved in the hall, until, with a rush, the representatives of the Press sped forth to proclaim Jacques Roux an unparalleled sensation.
The triumph of Robichon! How generous were the congratulations of Quinquart, and how sweet the admiring tributes of Suzanne! And there was another compliment to come—nothing less than a card from the marquis de Thevenin, requesting an interview at his home.
"Ah!" exclaimed Robichon, enravished, "an invitation from a noble! That proves the effect I made, hein?"
"Who may he be?" inquired Quinquart. "I never heard of the marquis deThevenin!"
"It is immaterial whether you have heard of him," replied Robichon. "He is a marquis, and he desires to converse with me! It is an honour that one must appreciate. I shall assuredly go."
And, being a bit of a snob, he sought a fiacre in high feather.
The drive was short, and when the cab stopped he was distinctly taken aback to perceive the unpretentious aspect of the nobleman's abode. It was, indeed, nothing better than a lodging. A peasant admitted him, and the room to which he was ushered boasted no warmer hospitality than a couple of candles and a decanter of wine. However, the sconces were massive silver. Monsieur le marquis, he was informed, had been suddenly compelled to summon his physician, and begged that monsieur Roux would allow him a few minutes' grace.
Robichon ardently admired the candlesticks, but began to think he might have supped more cozily with Suzanne.
It was a long time before the door opened.
The marquis de Thevenin was old—so old that he seemed to be falling to pieces as he tottered forward. His skin was yellow and shrivelled, his mouth sunken, his hair sparse and grey; and from this weird face peered strange eyes—the eyes of a fanatic.
"Monsieur, I owe you many apologies for my delay," he wheezed. "My unaccustomed exertion this evening fatigued me, and on my return from the hall I found it necessary to see my doctor. Your lecture was wonderful, monsieur Roux—most interesting and instructive; I shall never forget it."
Robichon bowed his acknowledgments.
"Sit down, monsieur Roux, do not stand! Let me offer you some wine. I am forbidden to touch it myself. I am a poor host, but my age must be my excuse."
"To be the guest of monsieur le marquis," murmured Robichon, "is a privilege, an honour, which—er—"
"Ah," sighed the Marquis. "I shall very soon be in the Republic where all men are really equals and the only masters are the worms. My reason for requesting you to come was to speak of your unfortunate experiences—of a certain unfortunate experience in particular. You referred in your lecture to the execution of one called 'Victor Lesueur.' He died game, hein?"
"As plucky a soul as I ever dispatched!" said Robichon, savouring the burgundy.
"Ah! Not a tremor? He strode to the guillotine like a man?"
"Like a hero!" said Robichon, who knew nothing about him.
"That was fine," said the Marquis; "that was as it should be! You have never known a prisoner to die more bravely?" There was a note of pride in his voice that was unmistakable.
"I shall always recall his courage with respect," declared Robichon, mystified.
"Did you respect it at the time?"
"Pardon, monsieur le marquis?"
"I inquire if you respected it at the time; did you spare him all needless suffering?"
"There is no suffering," said Robichon. "So swift is the knife that—"The host made a gesture of impatience. "I refer to mental suffering.Cannot you realise the emotions of an innocent man condemned to ashameful death!"
"Innocent! As for that, they all say that they are innocent."
"I do not doubt it. Victor, however, spoke the truth. I know it. He was my son."
"Your son?" faltered Robichon, aghast.
"My only son—the only soul I loved on earth. Yes; he was innocent, monsieur Roux. And it was you who butchered him—he died by your hands."
"I—I was but the instrument of the law," stammered Robichon. "I was not responsible for his fate, myself."
"You have given a masterly lecture, monsieur Roux," said the Marquis musingly; "I find myself in agreement with all that you said in it— you are his murderer,' I hope the wine is to your taste, monsieur Roux? Do not spare it!"
"The wine?" gasped the actor. He started to his feet, trembling—he understood.
"It is poisoned," said the old man calmly, "In an hour you will be dead."
"Great Heavens!" moaned Robichon. Already he was conscious of a strange sensation—his blood was chilled, his limbs were weighted, there were shadows before his eyes.
"Ah, I have no fear of you!" continued the other; "I am feeble, I could not defend myself; but your violence would avail you nothing. Fight, or faint, as you please—you are doomed."
For some seconds they stared at each other dumbly—the actor paralysed by terror, the host wearing the smile of a lunatic. And then the "lunatic" slowly peeled court-plaster from his teeth, and removed features, and lifted a wig.
* * * * *
And when the whole story was published, a delighted Paris awarded the palm to Quinquart without a dissentient voice, for while Robichon had duped an audience, Quinquart had duped Robichon himself.
Robichon bought the silver candlesticks, which had been hired for the occasion, and he presented them to Quinquart and Suzanne on their wedding-day.
They were called the "Two Children" because they were so unpractical; even in bohemia, where practicality is the last virtue to flourish, their improvidence was surprising; but really they were not children at all—they had been married for three years, though to watch their billing and cooing, you would have supposed them to be bride and bridegroom.
Julian and Juliette had fallen in love and run to the Mairie as joyously as if chateaubriands were to be gathered from the boughs in the Jardin des Buttes-Chaumont; and since then their home had been the studio under the slates, where they were often penniless. Indeed, if it had not been for the intermittent mercies of madame Cochard, the concierge, they would have starved under the slates. However, they were sure that the pictures which Julien painted would some day make him celebrated, and that the fairy-tales which Juliette weaved would some day be as famous as Hans Andersen's. So they laughed, and painted and scribbled, and spent their money on bonbons, instead of saving it for bread; and when they had no dinner, they would kiss each other, and say "There is a good time coming," And they were called the "Two Children," as you know.
But even the patience of madame Cochard was taxed when Juliette brought back the poodle.
She found him—a strayed, muddy, unhappy little poodle—in the rue de Rivoli one wet afternoon in November, and what more natural than that she should immediately bear him home, and propose to give him a bath, and adopt him? It was the most natural thing in the world, since she was Juliette, yet this madame Cochard, who objected to a dog on her stairs as violently as if it were a tiger, was furious.
"Is it not enough," she cried, "that you are the worst tenants in the house, you two—that you are always behindhand with your rent, and that I must fill your mouths out of my own purse? Is a concierge an Angel from Heaven, do you think, that you expect her to provide also for lost dogs?"
"Dear, kind madame Cochard," cooed Juliette, "you will learn to love the little creature as if it were your own child! See how trustfully he regards you!"
"It is a fact," added Julien; "he seems to take to her already! It is astonishing how quickly a dog recognises a good heart."
"Good heart, or not," exclaimed the concierge, "it is to be understood that I do not consent to this outrage. The poodle shall not remain!"
"Be discreet," urged Juliette. "I entreat you to be discreet, for your own sake; if you must have the whole truth, he is a fairy poodle!"
"What do you say?" ejaculated madame Cochard.
"He is a fairy poodle, and if we treat him ungenerously, we shall suffer. Remember the history of the Lodgers, the Concierge, and the Pug!"
"I have never heard of such a history," returned madame Cochard; "and I do not believe that there ever was one."
"She has never heard the history of the Lodgers, the Concierge, and the Pug!" cried Juliette. "Oh, then listen, madame! Once upon a time there were two lodgers, a young man and his wife, and they were so poor that often they depended on the tenderness of the concierge to supply them with a dinner."
"Did they also throw away their good money on bonbons and flowers?" asked madame Cochard, trying her utmost to look severe.
"It is possible," admitted Juliette, who was perched on the table, with the dirty little animal in her lap, "for though they are our hero and heroine, I cannot pretend that they were very wise. Well, this concierge, who suffered badly from lumbago and stairs, had sometimes a bit of temper, so you may figure yourself what a fuss she raised when the poor lodgers brought home a friendless pug to add to their embarrassments. However—"
"There is no 'however,'" persisted madame Cochard; "she raises a fuss, and that is all about it!"
"Pardon, dear madame," put in Julien, "you confuse the cases; we are now concerned with the veracious history of the pug, not the uncertain future of the poodle."
"Quite so," said Juliette. "She raised a terrible fuss and declared that the pug should go, but finally she melted to it and made it welcome. And then, what do you suppose happened? Why, it turned out to be an enchanted prince, who rewarded them all with wealth and happiness. The young man's pictures were immediately accepted by the Salon—did I mention that he was an artist? The young woman's stories— did I tell you that she wrote stories?—became so much the fashion that her head swam with joy; and the concierge—the dear, kind concierge— was changed into a beautiful princess, and never had to walk up any stairs again as long as she lived. Thus we see that one should never forbid lodgers to adopt a dog!"
"Thus we see that they do well to call you a pair of 'children,'" replied madame Cochard, "that is what we see! Well, well, keep the dog, since you are so much bent on it; only I warn you that if it gives me trouble, it will be sausages in no time! I advise you to wash it without delay, for a more deplorable little beast I never saw."
Julien and Juliette set to work with delight, and after he was bathed and dry, the alteration in the dog was quite astonishing. Although he did not precisely turn into a prince, he turned into a poodle of the most fashionable aspect. Obviously an aristocrat among poodles, a poodle of high estate. The metamorphosis was so striking that a new fear assailed his rescuers, the fear that it might be dishonest of them to retain him—probably some great lady was disconsolate at his loss!
Sure enough! A few days later, when Sanquereau called upon them, he said:
"By the way, did I not hear that you had found a poodle, my children? Doubtless it is the poodle for which they advertise. See!" And he produced a copy of a journal in which "a handsome reward" was promised for the restoration of an animal which resembled their protégé to a tuft.
The description was too accurate for the Children to deceive themselves, and that afternoon Juliette carried the dog to a magnificent house which was nothing less than the residence of the comtesse de Grand Ecusson.
She was left standing in a noble hall while a flunkey bore the dog away. Then another flunkey bade her follow him upstairs; and in a salon which was finer than anything that Juliette had ever met with outside the pages of a novel, the Countess was reclining on a couch with the poodle in her arms.
"I am so grateful to you for the recovery of my darling," said the great lady; "my distress has been insupportable. Ah, naughty, naughty Racine!" She made a pretence of chastising the poodle on the nose.
"I can understand it, madame," said Juliette, much embarrassed.
"Where did you find him? And has he been well fed, well taken care of?I hope he has not been sleeping in a draught?"
"Oh, indeed, madame, he has been nourished like a beloved child.Doubtless, not so delicately as with madame, but—"
"It was most kind of you," said the lady. "I count myself blessed that my little Racine fell into such good hands. Now as to the reward, what sum would you think sufficient?"
Juliette looked shy. "I thank you, madame, but we could not accept anything," she faltered.
"What?" exclaimed the Countess, raising her eyebrows in surprise, "you cannot accept anything? How is that?"
"Well," said Juliette, "it would be base to accept money for a simple act of honesty. It is true that we did not wish to part with the dog— we had grown to love him—but, as to our receiving payment for giving him up, that is impossible."
The Countess laughed merrily. "What a funny child you are! And, who are 'we'—you and your parents?"
"Oh no," said Juliette; "my parents are in Heaven, madame; but I am married."
"Your husband must be in heaven, too!" said the Countess, who was a charming woman.
"Ah," demurred Juliette, "but although I have a warm heart, I have also a healthy appetite, and he is not rich; he is a painter."
"I must go to see his pictures some day," replied the comtesse de Grand Ecusson. "Give me the address—and believe that I am extremely grateful to you!"
It need not be said that Juliette skipped home on air after this interview. The hint of such patronage opened the gates of paradise to her, and the prospect was equally dazzling to Julien. For fully a week they talked of nothing but a visit from the comtesse de Grand Ecusson, having no suspicion that fine ladies often forgot their pretty promises as quickly as they made them.
And the week, and a fortnight, and a month passed, and at last the expectation faded; they ceased to indulge their fancies of a carriage- and-pair dashing into the street with a Lady Bountiful. And what was much more serious, madame Cochard ceased to indulge their follies. The truth was that she had never pardoned the girl for refusing to accept the proffered reward; the delicacy that prompted the refusal was beyond her comprehension, and now that the pair were in arrears with their rent again, she put no bridle on her tongue. "It appears to me that it would have been more honourable to accept money for a poodle than to owe money to a landlord," she grunted. "It must be perfectly understood that if the sum is not forthcoming on the first of January, you will have to get out. I have received my instructions, and I shall obey them. On the first day of January, my children, you pay, or you go! Le bon Dieu alone knows what will become of you, but that is no affair of mine. I expect you will die like the babes in the wood, for you are no more fit to make a living than a cow is fit to fly."
"Dear madame Cochard," they answered, peacefully, "why distress yourself about us? The first of January is more than a week distant; in a week we may sell a picture, or some fairy tales—in a week many things may happen!" And they sunned themselves on the boulevard the same afternoon with as much serenity as if they had been millionaires.
Nevertheless, they did not sell a picture or some fairy tales in the week that followed—and the first of January dawned with relentless punctuality, as we all remember.
In the early morning, when madame Cochard made her ascent to the attic —her arms folded inexorably, the glare of a creditor in her eye—she found that Juliette had already been out. (If you can believe me, she had been out to waste her last two francs on an absurd tie for Julien!)
"Eh bien," demanded the concierge sternly, "where is your husband? I am here, as arranged, for the rent; no doubt he has it ready on the mantelpiece for me?"
"He is not in," answered Juliette coaxingly, "and I am sorry to say we have had disappointments. The fact is there is something wrong with the construction of a story of which I had immense hopes—it needs letting out at the waist, and a tuck put in at the hem. When I have made the alterations, I am sure it will fit some journal elegantly."
"All this passes forbearance!" exclaimed madame Cochard. "Well, you have thoroughly understood, and all is said—you will vacate your lodging by evening! So much grace I give you; but at six o'clock you depart promptly, or you will be ejected! And do not reckon on me to send any meal up here during the day, for you will not get so much as a crust. What is it that you have been buying there?"
"It is a little gift for Julien; I rose early to choose it before he woke, and surprise him; but when I returned he was out."
"A gift?" cried the concierge. "You have no money to buy food, and you buy a gift for your husband! What for?"
"What for?" repeated Juliette wonderingly. "Why, because it is New Year's Day! And that reminds me—I wish you the compliments of the season, madame; may you enjoy many happy years!"
"Kind words pay no bills," snapped the concierge. "I have been lenient far too long—I have my own reputation to consider with the landlord. By six o'clock, bear in mind!" And then, to complete her resentment, what should happen but that Julien entered bearing a bouquet!
To see Julien present Juliette with the roses, and to watch Juliette enchant Julien with the preposterous tie, was as charming a little comedy of improvidence as you would be likely to meet with in a lifetime.
"Mon Dieu!" gasped madame Cochard, purple with indignation, "it is, indeed, well that you are leaving here, monsieur—a madhouse is the fitting address for you! You have nothing to eat and you buy roses for your wife! What for?"
"What for?" echoed Julien, astonished. "Why, because it is New Year's Day! And I take the opportunity to wish you the compliments of the season, madame—may your future be as bright as Juliette's eyes!"
"By six o'clock!" reiterated the concierge, who was so exasperated that she could barely articulate. "By six o'clock you will be out of the place!" And to relieve her feelings, she slammed the door with such violence that half a dozen canvases fell to the floor.
"Well, this is a nice thing," remarked Julien, when she had gone. "It looks to me, mignonne, as if we shall sleep in the Bois, with the moon for an eiderdown."
"At least you shall have a comfy pillow, sweetheart," cried Juliette, drawing his head to her breast.
"My angel, there is none so soft in the Elysée, And as we have nothing for déjeuner in the cupboard, I propose that we breakfast now on kisses."
"Ah, Julien!" whispered the girl, as she folded him in her arms.
"Ah, Juliette!" It was as if they had been married that morning.
"And yet," continued the young man, releasing her at last, "to own the truth, your kisses are not satisfying as a menu; they are the choicest of hors d'oeuvres—they leave one hungry for more."
They were still making love when Sanquereau burst in to wish them aHappy New Year.
"How goes it, my children?" he cried. "You look like a honeymoon, I swear! Am I in the way, or may I breakfast with you?"
"You are not in the way, mon vieux," returned Julien; "but I shall not invite you to breakfast with me, because my repast consists of Juliette's lips."
"Mon Dieu!" said Sanquereau. "So you are broke? Well, in my chequered career I have breakfasted on much worse fare than yours."
At this reply, Juliette blushed with all the bashfulness of a bride, and Julien endeavoured to assume the air of a man of the world.
"Tell me," he said; "we are in difficulties about the rent—have you by chance a louis that you could lend me?"
Sanquereau turned out his pockets, like the good fellow he was, but he could produce no more than a sou. "What a bother!" he cried. "I would lend you a louis if I had it as readily as a cigarette-paper, but you see how I am situated. On my honour, it rends my heart to have to refuse."
"You are a gallant comrade," said Julien, much touched. "Come back and sup with us this evening, and we will open the New Year with a festivity!"
"Hein? But there will be no supper," faltered Juliette.
"That's true," said Julien; "there will be no supper—I was forgetting.Still—who knows? There is plenty of time; I shall have an idea.Perhaps I may be able to borrow something from Tricotrin."
"I shall be enchanted," responded Sanquereau; "depend on my arrival! IfI am not mistaken, I recognize Tricotrin's voice on the stairs."
His ears had not deceived him; Tricotrin appeared with Pitou at this very moment.
"Greeting, my children!" they cried. "How wags the world? May the NewYear bring you laurels and lucre!"
"To you also, dear Gustave and Nicolas," cried the Children. "May your poems and your music ignite the Seine, and may Sanquereau rise to eminence and make statues of you both!"
"In the meantime," added Sanquereau, "can either of you put your hands on a few francs? There is a fine opening for them here."
"A difference of opinion exists between ourselves and the landlord," Julien explained; "we consider that he should wait for his rent, and he holds a different view. If you could lend us fifteen francs, we might effect a compromise."
The poet and the composer displayed the lining of their pockets as freely as the sculptor had done, but their capital proved to be a sou less than his own. Tears sprang to their eyes as they confessed their inability to be of use, "We are in despair," they groaned.
"My good, kind friends," exclaimed Julien, "your sympathy is a noble gift in itself! Join us in a little supper this evening in celebration of the date."
"We shall be delighted," declared Tricotrin and Pitou.
"But—but—" stammered Juliette again, "where is it to come from, this supper—and where shall we be by supper-time?"
"Well, our address is on the lap of the gods," admitted Julien, "but while there is life there is hope. Possibly I may obtain a loan from Lajeunie."
Not many minutes had passed before Lajeunie also paid a visit to the attic, "Aha," cried the unsuccessful novelist, as he perceived the company, "well met! My children, my brothers, may your rewards equal your deserts this year—may France do honour to your genius!"
"And may Lajeunie be crowned the New Balzac," shouted the assembly; "may his abode be in the Champs Elysées, and his name in the mouth of all the world!"
But, extraordinary as it appears, Lajeunie proved to be as impecunious as the rest there; and he was so much distressed that Julien, deeply moved, said:
"Come back to supper, Lajeunie, we will drink toasts to the Muses!" And now there were four guests invited to the impracticable supper, and when the Children were left alone they clapped their hands at the prospect.
"How merry we shall be!" Julien exclaimed; "and awhile ago we talked of passing the night in the Bois! It only shows you that one can never tell what an hour may bring forth."
"Yes, yes," assented Juliette blithely. "And as for the supper—"
"We shall not require it till nine o'clock at the earliest."
"And now it is no more than midday. Why, there is an eternity for things to arrange themselves!"
"Just so. The sky may rain truffles in such an interval," said the painter. And they drew their chairs closer to the fire, and pretended to each other that they were not hungry.
The hours crept past, and the sunshine waned, and snow began to flutter over Paris. But no truffles fell. By degrees the fire burnt low, and died. To beg for more fuel was impossible, and Juliette shivered a little.
"You are cold, sweetheart," sighed Julien. "I will fetch a blanket from the bed and wrap you in it."
"No," she murmured, "wrap me in your arms—it will be better."
Darker and darker grew the garret, and faster and faster fell the snow.
"I have a fancy," said Juliette, breaking a long silence, "that it is the hour in which a fairy should appear to us. Let us look to see if she is coming!"
They peered from the window, but in the twilight no fairy was to be discerned; only an "old clo'" man was visible, trudging on his round.
"I declare," cried Julien, "he is the next best thing to your fairy! I will sell my summer suit and my velvet jacket. What do I want of a velvet jacket? Coffee and eggs will be much more cheerful."
"And I," vowed Juliette, "can spare my best hat easily—indeed, it is an encumbrance. If we make madame Cochard a small peace-offering she may allow us to remain until the morning."
"What a grand idea! We shall provide ourselves with a night's shelter and the means to entertain our friends as well Hasten to collect our wardrobe, mignonette, while I crack my throat to make him hear. Hé, hé!"
At the repeated cries the "old clo'" man lifted his gaze to the fifth- floor window at last, and in a few minutes Julien and Juliette were kneeling on the boards above a pile of garments, which they raised one by one for his inspection.
"Regard, monsieur," said Julien, "this elegant summer suit! It is almost as good as new. I begin to hesitate to part with it. What shall we say for this elegant summer suit?"
The dealer fingered it disdainfully. "Show me boots," he suggested; "we can do business in boots."
"Alas!" replied Julien, "the only boots that I possess are on my feet.We will again admire the suit. What do you estimate it at—ten francs?"
"Are you insane? are you a lunatic?" returned the dealer. "To a reckless man it might be worth ten sous. Let us talk of boots!"
"I cannot go barefoot," expostulated Julien. "Juliette, my Heart, do you happen to possess a second pair of boots?"
Juliette shook her head forlornly. "But I have a hat with daisies in it," she said. "Observe, monsieur, the delicate tints of the buds! How like to nature, how exquisite they are! They make one dream of courtship in the woods. I will take five francs for it."
"From me I swear you will not take them!" said the "old clo'" man."Boots," he pleaded; "for the love of God, boots!"
"Morbleu, what a passion for boots you have!" moaned the unhappy painter; "they obsess you, they warp your judgment. Can you think of nothing in the world but boots? Look, we come to the gem of the exhibition—a velvet jacket! A jacket like this confers an air of greatness, one could not feel the pinch of poverty in such a jacket. It is, I confess, a little white at the elbows, but such high lights are very effective. And observe the texture—as soft as a darling's cheek!"
The other turned it about with indifferent hands, and the Children began to realise that he would prove no substitute for a fairy after all. Then, while they watched him with sinking hearts, the door was suddenly opened, and the concierge tottered on the threshold.
"Monsieur, madame!" she panted, with such respect that they stared at each other.
"Eh bien?"
"A visitor!" She leant against the wall, overwhelmed.
"Who is it?"
"Madame, la comtesse de Grand Ecusson!"
Actually! The Countess had kept her word after all, and now she rustled in, before the "old clo'" man could be banished. White as a virgin canvas, Julien staggered forward to receive her, a pair of trousers, which he was too agitated to remember, dangling under his arm. "Madame, this honour!" he stammered; and, making a piteous effort to disguise his beggary, "One's wardrobe accumulates so that, really, in a small ménage, one has no room to—"
"I have suffered from the inconvenience myself, monsieur," said the Countess graciously. "Your charming wife was so kind as to invite me to view your work; and see—my little Racine has come to wish his preservers a Happy New Year!"
And, on the honour of an historian, he brought one! Before they left she had given a commission for his portrait at a thousand francs, and purchased two landscapes, for which a thousand francs more would be paid on the morrow. When Sanquereau, and Lajeunie, and Tricotrin, and Pitou arrived, expecting the worst, they were amazed to discover the Children waltzing round the attic to the music of their own voices.
Whathurrasrang out when the explanation was forthcoming; what loans were promised to the guests, and what a gay quadrille was danced! It was not until the last figure had concluded that Julien and Juliette recognised that, although they would be wealthy in the morning, they were still penniless that night.
"Hélas! but we have no supper after all," groaned Julien.
"Pardon, it is here, monsieur!" shouted madame Cochard, who entered behind a kingly feast. "Comment, shall the artist honoured by madame la comtesse de Grand Ecusson have no supper? Pot-au-feu, monsieur; leg of mutton, monsieur; little tarts, monsieur; dessert, monsieur; and for each person a bottle of good wine!"
And the justice that was done to it, and the laughter that pealed under the slates! The Children didn't forget that it was all due to the dog. Juliette raised her glass radiantly.
"Gentlemen," she cried, "I ask you to drink to the Fairy Poodle!"
Janiaud used to lie abed all day, and drink absinthe all night. When he contrived to write his poetry is a mystery. But he did write it, and he might have written other things, too, if he had had the will. It was often said that his paramount duty was to publish a history of modern Paris, for the man was an encyclopaedia of unsuspected facts. Since he can never publish it now, however, I am free to tell the story of the Café du Bon Vieux Temps as he told it to an English editor and me one night on the terrace of the café itself. It befell thus:
When we entered that shabby little Montmartre restaurant, Janiaud chanced to be seated, at a table in a corner, sipping his favourite stimulant. He was deplorably dirty and suggested a scarecrow, and the English editor looked nervous when I offered an introduction. Still, Janiaud was Janiaud. The offer was accepted, and Janiaud discoursed in his native tongue. At midnight the Editor ordered supper. Being unfamiliar with the Café du Bon Vieux Temps in those days, I said that I would drink beer. Janiaud smiled sardonically, and the waiter surprised us with the information that beer could not be supplied.
"What?"
"After midnight, nothing but champagne," he answered.
"Really? Well, let us go somewhere else," I proposed.
But the Editor would not hear of that. He had a princely soul, and, besides, he was "doing Paris."
"All the same, what does it mean?" he inquired of Janiaud.
Janiaud blew smoke rings. "It is the rule. During the evening the bock-drinker is welcomed here as elsewhere; but at midnight—well, you will see what you will see!"
And we saw very soon. The bourgeoisie of Montmartre had straggled out while we talked, and in a little while the restaurant was crowded with a rackety crew who had driven up in cabs. Everybody but ourselves was in evening-dress. Where the coppers had been counted carefully, gold was scattered. A space was cleared for dancing, and mademoiselle Nan Joliquette obliged the company with her latest comic song.
The Editor was interested. "It is a queer change, though! Has it always been like this?"
"Ask Janiaud," I said;Idon't know."
"Oh, not at all," replied Janiaud; "no, indeed, it was not always like this! It used to be as quiet at midnight as at any other hour. But it became celebrated as a supper-place; and now it is quite the thing for the ardent spirits, with money, to come and kick up their heels here until five in the morning."
"Curious, how such customs originate," remarked the Editor. "Here we have a restaurant which is out of the way, which is the reverse of luxurious, and which, for all that, seems to be a gold mine to the proprietor. Look at him! Look at his white waistcoat and his massive watch-chain, his air of prosperity."
"How did he come to rake it in like this, Janiaud—you know everything?" I said.
The poet stroked his beard, and glanced at his empty glass. The Editor raised a bottle.
"I cannot talk on Clicquot," demurred Janiaud. "If you insist, I will take another absinthe—they will allow it, in the circumstances. Sst, Adolphe!" The waiter whisked over to us. "Monsieur pays for champagne, but I prefer absinthe. There is no law against that, hein?"
Adolphe smiled tolerantly.
"Shall we sit outside?" suggested the Editor. "What do you think? It's getting rather riotous in here, isn't it?"
So we moved on to the terrace, and waited while Janiaud prepared his poison.
"It is a coincidence that you have asked me for the history of the Bon Vieux Temps tonight," he began, after a gulp; "if you had asked for it two days earlier, the climax would have been missing. The story completed itself yesterday, and I happened to be here and saw the end.
"Listen: Dupont—the proprietor whom monsieur has just admired—used to be chef to a family on the boulevard Haussmann. He had a very fair salary, and probably he would have remained in the situation till now but for the fact that he fell in love with the parlourmaid. She was a sprightly little flirt, with ambitions, and she accepted him only on condition that they should withdraw from domestic service and start a business of their own. Dupont was of a cautious temperament; he would have preferred that they should jog along with some family in the capacities of chef and housekeeper. Still, he consented; and, with what they had saved between them, they took over this little restaurant— where monsieur the Editor has treated me with such regal magnificence. It was not they who christened it—it was called the Café du Bon Vieux Temps already; how it obtained its name is also very interesting, but I have always avoided digressions in my work—that is one of the first principles of the literary art."
He swallowed some more absinthe.
"They took the establishment over, and they conducted it on the lines of their predecessor—they provided a déjeuner at one franc fifty, and a dinner at two francs. These are side-shows of the Bon Vieux Temps to-day, but, in the period of which I speak, they were all that it had to say for itself—they were its foundation-stone, and its cupola. When I had two francs to spare, I used to dine here myself.
"Well, the profits were not dazzling. And after marriage the little parlourmaid developed extravagant tastes. She had a passion for theatres. I, Janiaud, have nothing to say against theatres, excepting that the managers have never put on my dramas, but in the wife of a struggling restaurateur a craze for playgoing is not to be encouraged. Monsieur will agree? Also, madame had a fondness for dress. She did little behind the counter but display new ribbons and trinkets. She was very stupid at giving change—and always made the mistake on the wrong side for Dupont. At last he had to employ a cousin of his own as dame- de-comptoir. The expenses had increased, and the returns remained the same. In fine, Dupont was in difficulties; the Bon Vieux Temps was on its last legs.
"Listen: There was at that time a dancer called 'Little-Flower-of-the- Wood'; she was very chic, very popular. She had her appartement in the avenue Wagram, she drove to the stage-doors in her coupé, her photographs were sold like confetti at a carnival. Well, one afternoon, when Dupont's reflections were oscillating between the bankruptcy court and the Morgue, he was stupefied to receive a message from her—she bade him reserve a table for herself and some friends for supper that night!
"Dupont could scarcely credit his ears. He told his wife that a practical joker must be larking with him. He declared that he would take no notice of the message, that he was not such an ass to be duped by it. Finally, he proposed to telegraph to Little-Flower-of-the-Wood, inquiring if it was genuine.
"Monsieur, as an editor, will have observed that a woman who is incapable in the daily affairs of life, may reveal astounding force in an emergency? It was so in this case. Madame put her foot down; she showed unsuspected commercial aptitude. She firmly forbade Dupont to do anything of the sort!
"'What?' she exclaimed. 'You will telegraph to her, inquiring? Never in this life! You might as well advise her frankly not to come. What would such a question mean? That you do not think the place is good enough for her! Well, ifyoudo not think so, neither willshe— she will decide that she had a foolish impulse and stay away!
"'Mon Dieu! do you dream that a woman accustomed to the Café de Paris would choose to sup in an obscure little restaurant like ours?' said Dupont, fuming. 'Do you dream that I am going to buy partridges, and peaches, and wines, and heaven knows what other delicacies, in the dark? Do you dream that I am going to ruin myself while every instinct in me protests? It would be the act of a madman!'
"'My little cabbage,' returned madame, 'we are so near to ruin as we are, that a step nearer is of small importance. If Little-Flower-of- the-Wood should come, it might be the turning-point in our fortunes— people would hear of it, the Bon Vieux Temps might become renowned. Yes, we shall buy partridges, and peaches—and bonbons, and flowers also, and we shall hire a piano! And if our good angel should indeed send her to us, I swear she shall pass as pleasant an evening as if she had gone to Maxim's or the Abbaye!