Some said: "He's an original, who affects a shabby costume to conceal the fact that he's a millionaire." Others: "He is some foreigner, some eminent personage, who desires to remain incognito in Paris."
And the waiters served promptly and with the utmost respect this party in a threadbare frock-coat, who ate truffled partridges and drank champagne frappé; and when he paid his bill, Cherami never took the change which the waiter brought him, even if it amounted to two or three francs.
"All right!" he would cry; "keep that; it's for you!"
Thereupon, the waiter would bow to the ground before so generous a patron; and he would stalk forth proudly from the restaurant, enchanted with the effect he had produced. And the next morning he would have nothing with which to procure a dinner.
I beg you not to believe that this character is an imaginary one; that there are no men foolish enough to act in this way; there are, and many of them. For our own part, we have known more than one.
But when naught remained of the small quarterly payment, he had to live anew on loans and stratagems; he had to content himself with the very modest fare of a cheap restaurant, where the mistress was willing to supply him on credit because he flattered her and compared her with Venus, although she was blear-eyed and had a purple nose. In that place he could not order champagne and truffles, to be sure; that would have been a waste of time; but Cherami found a way, none the less, to make a sensation: shouting louder than anybody else, bewildering everybody with his chatter, and always having some marvellous adventure to relate, of which he was the hero, and in which he had performed wonderful exploits. If one of his auditors seemed to doubt the veracity of his narrative, he would insult him, threaten him, challenge him, insist on fighting him instanter, and, in order to pacify my gentleman and restore peace, the person abused must needs treat him to nothing less than a cup of coffee followed by apetit verreof liqueur. As for the waiters, as he had nothing to give them, he treated them like dogs, and threatened them with his switch when they did not serve him promptly enough.
If, instead of passing his time in smoking and loitering, Monsieur Cherami had chosen to do something, he might have increased his income, and have lived without constantly resorting to loans. He was well informed; he retained from his early education a superficial idea of many things; he knew quite a lot, in fact, and might have passed for a scholar in the eyes of those who knew nothing. His handwriting was so good that he could have obtained work as a copyist. In his youth, he had studied music, and he could play the violin a little; he might have made something of his talent in that direction and have found aplace in the orchestra of a second-class theatre, or played in dance-halls for the grisette and the mechanic.
But the ci-devant Beau Arthur considered every sort of work that was suggested to him very far beneath him; he thought that he would degrade himself by becoming a copyist or a minstrel, and he was not ashamed to borrow a hundred sous when he knew that he could not repay them. What do such people understand by the wordhonor? Let us conclude that they fashion a kind of honor for their own use, just as some painters paint scenes from nature in which there is nothing natural, but which by common consent are called conventional nature.
One day, when he was without a sou, having been denied by all those from whom he had sought to borrow, and not daring to go to his cheap restaurant, because the mistress was absent, Cherami found himself confronted by the stern necessity of going without a mouthful of dinner, when it occurred to him to call upon his payer of interest. So he set out for the abode of the coal dealer, saying to himself on the way:
"Bernardin always refuses to make me the smallest advance; but, sacrebleu! when I tell him that I have nothing with which to pay for a dinner, it isn't possible that he will let me starve to death."
The modest tradesman was just about to sit down to dinner with his family when Cherami appeared, crying:
"The deuce! it would seem that you are about to dine! You're very lucky! For my part, I haven't the means to pay for a dinner. Lend me a crown, Bernardin, so that I can satisfy my hunger, too."
"I never have money to loan," the coal dealer replied respectfully; "but if monsieur will do us the honor totake a seat at our table, we shall be happy to offer him a share of our modest dinner."
"Oho! that's your game! Well, so be it!" rejoined Cherami, taking his seat without further parley.
But Bernardin's dinner was very simple; it consisted of soup, beef, and a dish of potatoes. The wine was Argenteuil, and very new.
Cherami exclaimed that the soup was watery, the beef tough, and the wine execrable; for dessert there was nothing but a piece of Géromé cheese, which he declared to be fit only for masons; and he was much surprised that they did not take coffee after the meal; in short, he rose from the table in a vile humor, saying to Bernardin and his wife:
"You live very badly, my dears; you live like rustics; I shall not dine with you again."
That was his only word of thanks to his hosts.
On the day on which our tale opens, Arthur Cherami found himself anew in this perplexing plight, which was aggravated by the circumstance that he had gone without dinner on the preceding day.
To be sure, he had only to go to Bernardin's, where he was very sure that they would not refuse to give him a dinner, in default of cash. But you know that our ex-high-liver was far from satisfied with the meal of which he had partaken at the coal dealer's board; notonly did he find everything bad, for my gentleman, even in his poverty, was still very hard to please, but he had discovered that at his debtor's house it would be of no use for him to try toblaguer—that is to say, to put on airs, to lie, to display his impertinence. The coal dealer's family did not even smile at the extraordinary tales he told, and it was that fact which had irritated Cherami even more than the simplicity of the dinner, perhaps. At the cheap resort to which he was obliged to go sometimes, he was content with a wretched, ill-cooked dish, because, while he ate it, he could talk at the top of his voice, speechify, and force most of the habitués of the place to listen to him. We know how he compelled those who ventured not to believe all that he said to pay for his coffee.
Arthur had no business whatever at the omnibus office, but he knew that one frequently meets acquaintances at such places. Amid the constant going and coming, departures and arrivals, it is no uncommon thing to meet someone whom you have not seen for a long time, and whom you did not know to be in Paris. So that Arthur, who had nothing to do, frequently visited the railroad stations, where he walked to and fro in front of the ticket offices, as if he were expecting someone; and, in fact, he was always expecting that chance would bring there some acquaintance from whom he could borrow five francs.
Or he would go and take his stand in front of an omnibus office, always with the same hope. On this occasion he had, in fact, met several acquaintances, but the result had not fulfilled his expectations. Coldly greeted by Papa Blanquette, repulsed by Madame Capucine, he was beginning to think that he should not makehis expenses, and he said to himself, but not aloud as usual:
"Sapristi! what times are these we live in? The world is becoming vile beyond cleansing! No courtesy, no affability, no good manners! Formerly, when I met a friend, my first words were: 'You must come to dine with me.'—He might accept or not, but I had made the offer. To-day, I meet nobody but cads, who are very careful not to offer me the slightest thing; indeed, many of them presume to pass me by, and act as if they didn't know me. There are others who carry their insolence so far as to dare to ask me for some paltry hundred-sou pieces which they have loaned me and I have not paid. Pardieu! I've loaned them plenty of 'em in the old days; and I never asked for them, because I knew it would be of no use. As if one ever returned money loaned among friends! As if what belongs to one doesn't belong to the other! That's the way I understand friendship—that noble, genuine friendship which united Castor and Pollux, Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades. Do we find in theIliadthat Patroclus ever said to Achilles: 'I loaned you a hundred sous, or twenty francs; I want you to pay them'? Bah! nothing of the sort; there's no instance in history of such a thing! And I defy all my former companions in pleasure to cite a single one. However, I am conscious to-day that the need of eating is making itself felt; I can't go to my little cabaret on Rue Basse-du-Temple, for the mistress is sick; her husband takes her place at the desk, and he is always ill-disposed toward me; he presumes to ask me for money! Vile turnspit! do you suppose I would go to your place for food if I had money? Ah! there's Bernardin; I am sure of a dinnerthere; but I am horribly bored with those good people. And then, it wounds my self-esteem to dine with one of my father's former clerks. Corbleu! can it be that, like Titus, I have wasted my day?"
And Cherami, still tapping his trousers with his switch, cast his eyes about him. Thereupon he spied the two girls who were waiting to go to Belleville.
"There are two little grisettes, whose aspect rather pleases me," he said to himself, throwing his weight on his left hip; "a blonde and a brunette—meat for the king's attorney, as we used to say at the club. They're pretty hussies both; the blonde has a rather stupid look, but the dark one has wit in her eye.—Suppose I should try to make a conquest by offering them a good dinner? Ten to one, they'll accept! I know the sex; these girls are so fond of eating! Yes, but in that case—they'll have to pay for the dinner; that might embarrass them, and I don't want to embarrass any woman. But if I did, I should do no more than avenge myself."
While making these reflections, Cherami had walked toward the young women; he struck a pose in front of them, humming a lively tune, and darted a glance at them into which he put all the seductiveness of which he was still capable. The young women looked at each other and laughed heartily; Mademoiselle Laurette went so far as to say, in a bantering tone:
"That must be a smoke-pipe from the Opéra-Comique that has a vent in this neighborhood; however, it's better than an escape of gas."
"Aha! we are clever and satirical!" said Cherami, addressing Mademoiselle Laurette; "I had guessed as much, simply by observing your saucy face."
"Why, I don't know what you mean, monsieur!" replied the girl, trying to assume a serious expression.
"I was simply answering the reflection in which you just indulged on the subject of a roulade which I ventured to perform, and which, perhaps, was not rendered with perfect accuracy."
"But, monsieur, I really didn't know that you were singing; I was saying to my friend Lucie that we should be very late in getting to the restaurant in Parc Saint-Fargeau, and that I didn't know whether there was dancing there on Saturday."
"Aha! so the young ladies are going to Parc Saint-Fargeau?—That is just beyond Belleville, I believe?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And there's a restaurant there now, where they have dancing? Pardon me, I ask simply for information, being a great lover of places where one can dine well—and enjoy one's self; and it's a long while since I have been in that neighborhood."
"In that case, you'll find great changes. Yes, monsieur; there is a restaurant now in Parc Saint-Fargeau, with a large garden where there's a pond. But it's no toy pond; it's big enough for a boat, and you can go rowing; it's quite big, and there's an island in it which you can row around if you're very careful, for the water's quite deep."
"You can be drowned in it," observed Mademoiselle Lucie.
"Oho! one has also the right to drown one's self, eh?"
"Why, yes! if you should fall into the water!"
"True. And there's a dance-hall, you say?"
"Yes, monsieur; one out-of-doors, and one inside for rainy days."
"Good; I see that everything is complete; and if, with all the rest, the cooking is good——"
"Very good; and they give you finematelotes, because they catch the fish on the spot."
"This rustic restaurant will certainly receive a call from me very soon; indeed, I would go there to-day—delighted to take the trip with you, mesdemoiselles—if I were not expecting someone—who, I am beginning to think, will not come. It's an infernal shame! we are invited to dine at the Palais-Royal; it's almost five o'clock now, and we shall break our engagement and they'll dine without us, all on his account!"
"You'll dine somewhere else; that's all. There's no lack of restaurants in Paris."
"Vive Dieu! who knows that better than I! So I have no difficulty on that score—that is to say, I don't know which to select, and if you young ladies will do me the honor to accept a little dinner in the suburbs——"
"Thanks, monsieur; but we don't accept dinners; besides, we are to meet someone at Parc Saint-Fargeau."
"That's just the reason I venture to invite them," said Cherami to himself.—"Are you young ladies engaged in business?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur; we make feathers; we work in one of the best shops on Rue Saint-Denis; but to-day is the mistress's birthday; that's why we have the whole day to ourselves."
"Enchanted to have made your acquaintance. Ah! so you're in feathers—a charming trade for a woman! They have the same volatility: birds of a feather flock together."
"Is he talking nonsense to us?" whispered Mademoiselle Lucie in her friend's ear.
"Why, no, stupid; not at all; that's a compliment."
"Belleville! passengers for Belleville!"
"Here's the Belleville 'bus, Laurette, and they're making signs that there are seats for us."
"Oh! we must run, then. Bonjour! monsieur."
"What! you are going so soon! I thought—I hoped——"
The two girls were already in the omnibus, which soon disappeared. Cherami turned on his heel, muttering:
"They were shrewd to refuse my dinner. Peste! how should I have got out of it? I'm not sorry to have had a chat with the little dears—one's name is Laurette, and the other's Lucie, or Lucile; they may be desirable acquaintances, on occasion; if I ever want to buy feathers, for instance."
A young man of some twenty-five years, fashionably dressed, but whose costume was in some disorder, suddenly appeared upon the scene. He was walking very fast, and did not stop until he reached the porte cochère of the Deffieux restaurant. There he halted, and gazed under the porte cochère with every indication of anxiety, not to say distress; then looked all about him and along the boulevard. From the pallor of his cheeks, the distortion of his features, the expression of his eyes, it was easy to see that he was suffering keenly, and that his distress was augmented by the expectation of someimpending event. Cherami had no sooner espied the young man, than the latter ran to where he stood and said, in a trembling voice:
"Have you been here some time, monsieur?"
"Why, yes, monsieur; quite a long time."
"I beg your pardon, but in that case you can tell me—— Have you noticed a wedding party arrive at this restaurant?"
"A wedding party? Certainly, I have seen one; it's only a short time since the carriages went away."
"They have arrived already? I thought I should be here before them."
"No; you are late."
"They have gone in?"
"Yes, monsieur; I had a very good view of the bride."
"You saw Fanny?"
"I don't know whether her name's Fanny, I'm sure; but what I do know is that she's very pretty."
"Oh! yes, monsieur; she's charming, isn't she?"
"She's a very pretty bride, without being a beauty."
"Oh! monsieur, there's no lovelier woman on earth."
"That's a matter of taste. I don't propose to contradict you."
"Was she pale, trembling? did she look as if she had been crying?"
"Why, not at all! She was fresh and rosy and affable; she laughed as she jumped out of the carriage; then I saw her figure, which isn't so bad, although she's a little stout."
"Stout! why, no! she's slender and rather small."
"I tell you, she's decidedly plump. But that does no harm in a blonde; a thin blonde is too much like a feather-duster."
"Blonde? Fanny is dark! You made a mistake, monsieur; it wasn't the bride that you saw."
"It wasn't the bride that I saw? Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can't be mistaken, for I talked with the groom's uncle, whom I know very well, Papa Blanquette, wholesale linen-draper."
"Blanquette! I beg your pardon, monsieur; the party you saw isn't the one I am expecting."
"Faith! it's not my fault. You ask me if a wedding party has arrived at this restaurant, and I tell you what I've seen. It seems that that isn't the one you are looking for; pray be more explicit, then."
"Oh! monsieur, pardon me; it's no wonder that I make mistakes, I am in such agony!"
"Agony? The deuce! In truth, you are very pale. Where's the pain?"
"In my heart!"
"The heart? Why, in that case, you must take something. Come with me to a café; I know what you need; I often have a pain in my heart."
"No, no! I won't leave this spot until I have seen her—the perfidious, faithless creature!"
"You are waiting for a faithless creature, eh? That ought not to prevent your taking something to set you up. You are horribly pale; you'll be ill in a moment. When one is waiting for a perfidious female, one needs strength, courage, nerve! Come and take a plate of soup; there's a soup-kitchen close by."
"Ah! here they are! here they are! Yes, I am sure that these are they; I know it by the way I feel. Look, monsieur; do you see those carriages on the boulevard?"
"Yes, this seems to be another wedding party. Peste! this is evidently a swell affair."
"The carriages are coming here—do you see, monsieur?"
"Glass coaches, with footmen in livery!—this goes away ahead of the Blanquette party."
"They are stopping here. Come, let us go nearer."
"Yes, yes. Oh! never fear; I'll not leave you. Is your unfaithful one there?"
"Fanny! She has married another—and I loved her so dearly!"
"Poor boy! I understand your suffering, now."
"Oh! I would like to die before her eyes."
"No nonsense! As if any man ought to die for a woman! Pshaw! there's nothing so easy to replace!"
The first carriage of this second wedding party had stopped at the door; four young men alighted, fashionably dressed all, and of genteel bearing. One of the four was evidently the hero of the ceremony; it was he who gave the orders, sent his groomsmen to the other carriages, or told them to whom they were to offer their arms. He was a little older than the others, apparently about thirty, and his life had evidently been well occupied, for his strongly marked, but jaded, features denoted excess of toil or of dissipation. He was a good-looking fellow, tall and slender, with an air of distinction; but there were dark rings around his great, brown eyes, his lips were thin and compressed, his smile was rather satirical than amiable, his forehead was already furrowed by numerous wrinkles, and he frowned repeatedly when he spoke with the slightest animation; his hair, which was of a glossy black and trimmed close, was already decidedly thin in front, and scarcely plentiful enough elsewhere to protect the top of his head.
"That's he! that's Auguste Monléard!" the young man to whom Cherami had attached himself murmured, with a shudder; and, as he spoke, he gripped his companion's arm in a sort of frenzy. But Cherami, far from complaining of that liberty, passed his arm through his new acquaintance's, saying:
"Ah! that young man is Auguste Monléard, is he? Wait! wait! Monléard; I knew a Monléard, twenty years ago, but this can't be the same man. Is he the groom?"
"Yes; it is for him that she has forgotten me, thrown me aside."
"She is wrong. That young man is good-looking, but you are younger; and then, too, that fellow looks to me as if he had had a devilishly intimate acquaintance with the joys of life!—I don't impute it to him as a crime—but he'll soon have to wear a wig."
"Ah! I am strongly inclined to go and strike him across the face!"
The young man had already started to attack the bridegroom; but Cherami detained him, putting his arm about him.
"What are you going to do? make a fool of yourself? I won't allow it. Well-bred people don't fight with their fists. If you want to fight with the groom, very good; I consent, I will even be your second; but you have plenty of time, and you must agree that this would be an ill-chosen moment."
The poor, lovelorn youth was not listening; another carriage had stopped in front of the restaurant. In that one there were ladies, among them the bride, who was easily recognizable by her head-dress of orange blossoms. She was a young woman of small stature, slender and dainty. Her hair was brown like her eyes, whichwere large, fringed by long lashes, and surmounted by slight but perfectly arched eyebrows. Her mouth was small and intelligent; she rarely showed her teeth, because they were uneven. She was an attractive woman, nothing more; a man must have been deeply in love with her to declare that there was no lovelier creature on earth. But for a man who is deeply enamored, there is but the one woman on earth; consequently, she must be the fairest. The bride's most remarkable points were her hands and feet, which were extraordinarily small, and worthy to be a sculptor's model.
The groom stepped forward to offer his arm to his wife, to assist her to alight. She barely rested her hand upon it, and, light as a feather, she was already on the ground, where she seemed busily occupied in looking to see if her dress had been rumpled in the carriage.
"There she is! it is she! it is Fanny!" murmured the young man, leaning heavily on Cherami.
"She doesn't look to me at all as if she'd been crying," was the reply.
"Mon Dieu! can it be that she will not look in this direction?"
"What's the use? She would see that you are pale and distressed, with the look of a disinterred corpse; that's no way to appear before a woman, to make her regret you."
"She would see how I suffer; she would realize that I shall die of grief!"
"I promise you that that wouldn't prevent her dancing this evening. I am a good judge of faces, and I divine that that woman has a cold disposition, heart ditto; there's very little feeling under that cover, or I am immeasurably mistaken."
Meanwhile, other ladies had left their carriages, and numerous young women, who flocked about the bride; one fastened a pin; another adjusted the folds of her veil; another remade her bouquet; and while they attended to these trivial details of the toilet, which are so momentous in a woman's eyes, especially a bride's, she glanced here and there, and soon her eyes fell upon the pale, dishevelled, heart-broken young man; for he had thrust aside all those who stood in front of him and who prevented him from gazing at his ease upon her for whom he had come here.
A faint tremor of emotion passed over the bride's features; there was in her eyes a momentary expression of pity, of sympathy; but it did not indicate suffering on her own part; and as her husband, who had noticed her preoccupation, hurried toward her at that moment, she speedily changed her expression, assumed an amiable, joyous manner, and accepted his arm with pretty, caressing little gestures.
Thereupon the young man, whom Cherami held by the arm, could not restrain a paroxysm of rage, crying:
"Oh! this is frightful! not a glance of regret, of farewell, for me! She sees my suffering, my despair, and she smiles at that man! and she walks off on his arm, with joy and happiness in her eyes!"
At that moment, one of the young women who had arrived in the bride's carriage ran hastily to him whom the wedding party made so miserable, and said to him in an undertone, but in a voice overflowing with kindness and sympathy:
"Why are you here, Gustave? Why did you come? You promised me to be brave."
"I am, mademoiselle; you see that I am—for I did not overwhelm the false creature with reproaches, here, before her husband's face, before her new relations!"
"Ah! that would have been very ill done of you; and how would it have helped you? I implore you, Gustave, be reasonable.—Do not leave him, monsieur, will you?"
The last question was addressed to Cherami, who hastened to reply:
"I! leave my dear Gustave in the state he's in now! I should think not! What do you take me for, mademoiselle? I will cling to him as the ivy to the elm. If he should throw himself into the water, I would follow him! But, never fear; he won't do it. Oh! I am here to look out for him; he has no more devoted friend than me."
At that moment, several voices called:
"Adolphine! Adolphine! do come!"
"They are looking for me and calling me," murmured the young woman. "Adieu! Gustave; but if you have theslightest regard for me, you will not abandon yourself to your grief. You won't, will you? I implore you!"
And the amiable young woman, as light of foot as a gazelle, disappeared under the porte cochère, as did all the other persons whom the carriages had brought.
"There's a little woman who pleases me exceedingly!" cried Cherami; "she must be the bride's sister or cousin, at least. For my part, I think that she's prettier than the bride. Perhaps her eyes aren't as big; but they are sweet and tender and kind; and then, they are blue, which always denotes true feeling: I have studied the subject. Her hair's not as dark as the other's, but it's of a light shade of chestnut which does not lack merit. Her mouth isn't so small, but neither are her lips so thin and tightly shut as the bride's. Distrust thin lips; they're a sure sign of malignity and hypocrisy. Lastly, she is less dainty than your faithless Fanny, but she is taller; her figure has more distinction and elegance. All in all, she is an exceedingly attractive person, this Mademoiselle Adolphine; I saymademoiselle,for I suppose that she still is one. Have I guessed right?"
But Gustave was not listening to his new friend. He stood with his eyes fixed on the door through which the wedding party had passed, apparently under the spell of a vague hallucination.
Cherami shook his arm, saying:
"Well, my dear Monsieur Gustave—I know your name now, and I shall never forget it; you probably have another, which you will tell me later. Come, what do you propose to do? Everybody has gone inside; we two alone are left at the door; the carriages have gone away, or are waiting on Rue de Bondy, and you have seenwhat you wanted to see. I presume that you do not intend to stay here until the wedding guests go home to bed; that might carry you too far. Come, sacrebleu my dear friend—allow me to call you by that name; I merit the privilege by the interest I take in you—you heard what that fascinating young woman said, who came and spoke to you with tears in her voice and her eyes—yes, may I be damned if she hadn't tears in her eyes, too! She begged you, implored you, to be brave, did the charming Adolphine—I remember her name, too. Well! won't you do what she asked? What the devil are you waiting for in front of this door? those people have all gone to dinner, and we must follow their example and ourselves go and dine. I saywemust go, because I promised the excellent Adolphine not to leave you, and, vive Dieu! I will keep my promise! I am expected at a certain place, to eat a truffled turkey; but there are truffled turkeys elsewhere, so that doesn't trouble me. Well! what do you mean to do? You can't seduce a woman by starving yourself to death."
"I want to speak to Fanny's sister."
"The bride's sister? Oh! I see, that's Mademoiselle Adolphine."
"Yes, she's the one I mean. I had many things to say to her, to ask her, just now. I was so confused, I couldn't think, I had no time."
"You want to speak to that young lady again; that seems to me rather difficult, for the whole party has gone in—unless—after all, why not? This is a restaurant, and although there are several wedding parties here, that doesn't prevent the restaurateur from entertaining all the other people who come here to dinner. Come, let's dine here; what do you think?"
"Oh! yes, yes! let us go in here and dine. We will ask for a private room near the wedding party, and during the ball—or before—I can see her again. I can speak to Adolphine."
"Pardieu! once there, we are in our castle; we will set up our batteries, and no one has the right to send us away; we can sup there, and breakfast to-morrow morning; so long as we eat, they will be delighted to have us stay."
"Ah! monsieur, how kind you are to take an interest in my troubles, to lend me your support, although you do not know me, do not know even who I am!"
"Oh! I am a physiognomist, my dear friend. At the very outset, you aroused my interest; besides, I love to oblige; I do nothing else! Let's go and dine."
"We will ask where the Monléard party is, monsieur; we will take a room on the same floor."
"Agreed! Let's go and dine."
"Without any apparent motive, I will question the waiter. Indeed, I can speedily enlist him in my interest with a five-franc piece."
"He will be entirely devoted to you. Let's go and dine."
"I will tell him to place us as near as possible to the room where the ladies are talking."
"But, sacrebleu! if we delay much longer, there'll be no vacant room near your wedding party."
"You are right! Come, come!"
"At last!" said Cherami to himself, striding behind young Gustave; "this time, I have my cue!"
The five francs given by young Gustave to a waiter instantly produced a most satisfactory result. He placed the new-comers in a private room on the first floor, at the end of a corridor; and the large hall in which Monsieur Monléard's wedding feast was to be given was at the other end of the same corridor. Gustave would have preferred to be nearer the scene of festivity, but that was impossible; and his companion persuaded him that they were much better off at the end of the corridor, where Mademoiselle Adolphine could, if she chose, come to exchange a few words with him, unobserved by the wedding guests.
"And now, let us dine!" cried Cherami, hanging his hat on a hook; "I will admit that I am hungry. All these events—your distress—your despair—have moved me deeply, and emotion makes one hollow. You also must feel the need of refreshment, for you are very pale."
"I am not at all hungry, monsieur."
"One isn't hungry at first; but afterward one eats very well. Besides, we came here to dine, if I'm not mistaken."
"Look you, monsieur; have the kindness to order—ask for whatever you choose—whatever you would like; but don't compel me to think about it."
"Very good; I agree. In truth, I am inclined to think that's the better way! With your abstraction, your sighs,you would never be able to order a dinner; you would order veal for fish, and radishes for prawns, while I excel in that part of the game. You see, I have lived, and lived well, I flatter myself! Some madeira first of all, waiter—and put some Moët in the ice; meanwhile, I will make out our menu!"
The madeira having been brought, Cherami immediately drank two glasses to restore the tone of his stomach; then he took the bill of fare, and took pains to order the best of everything. The waiter, who scrutinized our friend's costume while he was writing, would probably have displayed less zeal in serving him, had not his companion begun by slipping five francs into his hand. But that spontaneous generosity had given another direction to the waiter's ideas, and he concluded that the gentleman with the check trousers was a Scotchman who had not changed his travelling costume.
While Cherami wrote his order, young Gustave was unable to sit still for a moment; he went constantly to the door and took a few steps in the corridor, then returned to question the waiter, to whose particular attention Cherami commended his menu.
"Waiter, is the wedding party at table yet?"
"They sat down just a moment ago, monsieur."
"Above all things, don't have the fillet cooked too much."
"Never fear, monsieur."
"Where is the bride sitting?"
"At the middle of the table, monsieur."
"And well supplied with truffles."
"By whose side?"
"I think her father's on one side, monsieur."
"And on the other?"
"A salmon-trout."
"A lady, monsieur."
"If it isn't fresh, we won't take it."
"How is the lady's hair dressed?"
"She has lilies of the valley on her head."
"What's that! lilies of the valley on a salmon-trout! I never saw it served so."
"Not the trout, monsieur; I was speaking of a lady—one of the wedding party."
"And the groom, where is he sitting?"
"Opposite his wife, monsieur."
"Next, a caponau gros sel."
"Does he look at her often?"
"Done to a turn."
"Faith! monsieur, I didn't have time to notice as to that."
"What's that! Sapristi! you haven't time to tell the chef to cook it to a turn?"
"Pardon, monsieur; monsieur was asking me about the bridegroom.—Now I am at your service."
And the waiter, to escape these questions, which confused him, took the menu and disappeared. Cherami poured out another glass of madeira, saying to his new friend:
"Come, come, my dear Gustave; if you persist in imitating the bear of Berne, by going from this room into the corridor, and returning from the corridor to this room, you won't do yourself any good. You know that the wedding party is at the table. Naturally, they will be there some time. So follow their example. Take a seat opposite me, recover your tranquillity, and let us dine. See, here's our soup, just in time, exhaling a delicious odor. Allow me to help you."
The young man took his seat, and swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup; then pushed his plate away, crying:
"No; it's impossible for me to eat anything."
"Very well! then talk to me. Look you, while I am eating, as you don't choose to do the same, you have an excellent opportunity to tell me the story of your loves—with the ungrateful Fanny."
"Oh! yes, monsieur, gladly. I will tell you all, and you will see if I am wrong to complain of her inconstancy."
"Men are hardly ever wrong. Go on, my dear friend; tell me the whole story; I shall not lose a word of your narrative, because one can listen splendidly while eating."
"My name is Gustave Darlemont, and I am twenty-five years old. My parents lived on their income; but in order to obtain the means to live more expensively, they invested all their capital in an annuity."
"The devil! rather selfish parents, I should say. If everyone did the same, the wordinheritancewould be superfluous. Here's a fillet that is worth its weight in gold. Just taste it."
"No, thanks, monsieur.—For my part, I find no fault with my parents for doing as they did; they had earned their fortune by their own labor, they had given me a good education: what more could I ask?"
"You are delightful! Pardieu! you could ask for money. Let me give you some of this Château-Léoville.—It's cool and sweet—it will refresh your ideas. Go on, I beg."
"My parents died, and from what they left me in furniture, jewels, and plate, I had an income of twelve hundred francs."
"A mere trifle! that's not enough to pay one's tailor. To be sure, there's the alternative of not paying him at all."
"I was then seventeen; I didn't know just what business to embrace."
"And, pending your decision, you embraced all the pretty girls who came to hand. I know all about that."
"Oh! no, monsieur; I was very virtuous; I have never been what is called a lady's man."
"So much the worse, young man; so much the worse! There's nothing like women for training the young. You may say that they overtrain them sometimes. But think of the experience they acquire! I might cite myself as an example; but we haven't come to me yet. Go on, my young friend—for I am your friend. Although Aristotle said: 'O my friends, there are no friends!' I maintain that there are. And that's simply a play upon words by the Greek philosopher, to whom, had I been Philip, I would not have intrusted the education of my son Alexander, because of that one assertion.—But I beg your pardon; I am listening."
"Luckily, I had an uncle, Monsieur Grandcourt, my mother's brother. He took me into his family. He is rather an original, but kind and obliging. He is not an old man: only about forty-eight now."
"So much the worse, so much the worse! You certainly have hard luck in the matter of inheritances. Is this uncle of yours rich?"
"Not rich perhaps, but very comfortably fixed, I fancy."
"What does he do?"
"He's a banker."
"Everybody is, more or less."
"Oh! my uncle is a prudent man, who never risks his money in doubtful speculations; he is noted for the exactitude with which he fulfils his engagements, and for his absolute probity."
"Good! there's a man to whom I will intrust my funds, when I have more than I can handle."
"So I entered my uncle's employ as a clerk. I was very happy there. We often went to the theatre, to concerts, and to the best restaurants; and my uncle always paid."
"Pardieu! it would have been a fine thing if the nephew had had to stand treat! However, I see that your uncle's not a miser; he likes to enjoy himself. That's the kind of an uncle I like. I shall be glad to make his acquaintance."
"I have now arrived, monsieur, at the moment which changed the whole course of my life, which made me acquainted with a sentiment of whose power I had thus far been entirely ignorant. For, while I had had a few amourettes, I had never known a genuine passion. Ah! monsieur! the instant that I saw Fanny, I felt as if my heart were born to a new life; I was no longer the same. No, until then I had not lived!"
"That's a common sort of talk with lovers. They never have lived before their frantic passion,—the ingrates!—and they often forget the happiest days of their youth.—Ah! here's our salmon-trout—a delicious fish! You will surely taste a mouthful?"
"My uncle had bought some shares in the Orléans railway for Monsieur Gerbault, Fanny's father. He gave them to me to deliver to him. Monsieur Gerbault was not at home. Fanny received me, and invited me to wait till her father returned. We talked; I was amazed to hear that young girl discuss affairs at the Bourse quite as intelligently as a broker could do."
"And that was what fascinated you?"
"Oh! no, monsieur. But while Fanny was talking to me, I examined her. Her eyes were bright and intelligent;her smile was charming. Her whole person was instinct with a childish grace which fascinated me, and a perfect naturalness which put me at my ease at once. Before I had been with her half an hour, you would have thought that we were old friends. I took the greatest pleasure in listening to her, and I think that she perceived it, for she was never at a loss for something to say. Her father returned, and I was terribly sorry. Monsieur Gerbault is a very courteous old man. He smiled at me when he heard his daughter ask me the prices of all the different securities, and said:
"'It's very unfortunate for Fanny that women are not allowed on the Bourse, for I believe she would go there every day; she has a very pronounced taste for speculation; I dare not say for gambling, for I hope that it won't go so far as that. However, monsieur, she has five or six thousand francs, and so has her sister; it comes from their mother. Adolphine has very wisely invested her funds in government securities; but Fanny—oh! she's a different sort! she wants to speculate, to buy stocks, and she will probably lose her money.'
"'Why so, father, I should like to know?' said Fanny; 'why shouldn't luck be favorable to me? Besides, I don't mean to buy anything on margin, but only for cash; I shall keep what I buy, and not sell until I can sell at a profit. It seems to me that that is easy enough, and that there's no need of being a clerk in a broker's office to understand the operation. With my six thousand francs I could only get a miserable little income; why shouldn't I try to increase my principal?'
"'As you please,' said Monsieur Gerbault; 'you are perfectly at liberty to dispose of what belongs to you.'
"You can understand that I flattered the young woman's hopes, feeling as I did that I was already in love with her. I offered to keep her posted as to the general tendency of values on the Bourse and the financial situation. She accepted my offer; and Monsieur Gerbault, knowing that I was Monsieur Grandcourt's nephew, gave me free access to his house. In short, my dear—my dear—monsieur—I beg your pardon, but I don't as yet know your name."
"Pardieu! that's true; I had not thought to tell you. My name is Arthur Cherami, former land-holder, ci-devant premier high-liver of the capital. I set the fashion, I was the arbiter of style, and all the women doted on me. Oh! my story is very short: at twenty-two, I had thirty-five thousand francs a year; at thirty, I had nothing left. When I saynothing, I mean practically nothing; I still have a small remnant of income, a bagatelle, but my fortune is all eaten up. Well! young man, I give you my word of honor, that, if I could start afresh, I believe I would do the same again. I employed my youth to good purpose, and everybody can't say as much. For God's sake, must a man be old, infirm, and gouty, to enjoy life? You can't crack nuts when your teeth are all gone; therefore, you shouldn't wait till you're old to play the young man. Now, if I add that I am still a lusty fellow, as brave as Caesar, as gallant as François I, and as philosophical as Socrates, you will know me as well as if you had been my groom.—I have said."
"Very good! Your name, you say, is——? I beg your pardon, but I have forgotten it already."
"You are absent-minded; I can understand that. My name is Cherami, and I am yours, which constitutes apun;[B]but, to avoid mistakes, call me Arthur; that is my Christian name, and all the ladies call me that. Sapristi! this is an excellent fish; do eat a bit of it."
"I prefer to talk to you of my love."
"So be it!—That won't give you indigestion. Meanwhile, I'll eat for two—and listen to you. Fire away!"
"I was saying, Monsieur Arthur, that, as I had received permission to go to Monsieur Gerbault's house, you will divine that I took advantage of it."
"Yes, indeed.—This fish is perfect; you make a great mistake not to eat it."
"Monsieur Gerbault, formerly a clerk in one of the government offices, has only a modest fortune; he is a widower with two daughters, to both of whom he has given an excellent education. Fanny is talented; she is a good musician, and knows English and Italian."
"And her sister?"
"Adolphine plays the piano, too, and sings quite well. She is very sweet and of a very amiable disposition; but, you see, I didn't pay any attention to the sister; I had eyes for Fanny alone. Her grace, her wit, her lovely eyes, all combined to turn my head. She saw it plainly enough, and, far from repelling me, she seemed to try to redouble her charms, in order to make me more in love with her than ever."
"The devil! she's a shrewd coquette!"
"Oh! no, monsieur! but it's her nature always to make herself attractive; she can't help it."
"Here's the caponau gros sel.—Now's the time for the champagne frappé. Corbleu! you'll drink some of this."
"But, monsieur——"
"It will give you strength, nerve. Nobody knows what may happen to-night; a man should always be ready for action."
"A year passed; I had the good fortune to make some lucky turns for Fanny; she had made nearly three thousand francs in railroad shares; she was overjoyed, and was already dreaming of an immense fortune. I had told her that I loved her, and she had replied, with a smile, that she suspected as much. Thereupon, I asked her if she would marry me, and she replied: 'My father can give only twenty thousand francs to each of his daughters, and you know what I have besides. That doesn't make much of an income.'
"'What does it matter?' said I; 'I love you with all my heart; if you had no marriage portion at all, I should none the less consider myself the happiest of men if I could obtain your hand.—I have twelve hundred francs a year,' I added, 'and my uncle pays me eighteen hundred; you see that we shall have enough to live comfortably.'
"Fanny listened to me, and seemed to reflect; but I had taken her hand and squeezed it, and she did not take it away.
"'Are you willing,' I said, 'that I should prefer my suit to your father to-morrow?'
"'That's not necessary,' she replied; 'we have time enough; and then, you need have no fear in that respect; father has told me a hundred times that he wouldnot interfere with my choice; that he was sure that I would not marry anyone who would not make me happy.'
"For my part, I wanted to be married at once, but Fanny desired to add a little more to her capital before marrying, so that she might have a more substantial dowry to offer me. It was of no use for me to say that I cared nothing about that; I could not make her listen to reason."
"If you took that for love, my dear Gustave, you can hardly claim to be a connoisseur.—Here's your very good health!"
"Ah! monsieur; Fanny was always so amiable! her eyes always had such a sweet look in them when they met mine! she had such pretty, caressing little ways with me!"
"Yes, yes, I know. The whole battery of the petticoat file!"
"Six months more passed, and I implored Fanny to fix a date for our wedding. Unluckily, her operations in railroads no longer showed a profit; the shares she had bought had gone down; it was necessary to wait; and Fanny was angry at the way things were going on the Bourse.—It was about that time—— Ah! it was then that my misfortunes began."
"Courage, dear Gustave!—and another glass of Moët! Do take a wing of this capon—just a bit of white meat. What! nothing? Well, then, sapristi! I will sacrifice myself and eat the whole bird. Never mind what the result may be; but I will drink, too, for I must wash it down.—Your health!"
"As I was saying, it was about this time that Monsieur Auguste Monléard made the acquaintance of the Gerbault family—at a ball, I believe; he asked and obtained fromthe father permission to come occasionally and play and sing with the young ladies. I did not know that until later, for I did not happen to meet him for some time. The very first time that I saw him, I had a presentiment that his presence in Monsieur Gerbault's house would be fatal to my love. This Monléard made a great parade; he had a cabriolet and a negro footman; indeed, he had, so it was said, forty thousand francs a year. All that would have been a matter of indifference to me, if I had not noticed that he was very attentive, very gallant, to Fanny. However, she continued to smile on me in the most charming way; but when I said to her: 'Fix a day for our wedding, I beg you, and let me speak to your father,' she replied: 'Oh! not yet; we have plenty of time; I must increase my capital first.'
"One morning, I had escaped from my duties at my uncle's, who scolded me sometimes because love led me to neglect business."
"Did your uncle approve your matrimonial plans?"
"Not very warmly; he had said to me several times: 'You're too young to marry; wait awhile.'
"But when he saw how dearly I loved Fanny, he finally said: 'Do as you please; but if I were in your place, I'd have nothing to do with a young woman who speculates in railroad stocks.'"
"I am much of your uncle's opinion."
"And he added: 'You know that I will not give you a sou to be married on, don't you?'
"I replied: 'And you know that I ask you for nothing but your affection.'"
"A noble reply! and one that binds you to nothing.—Have a glass of champagne."
"I have already had one."
"So much the more reason for taking another. I say, my boy, order us a Périgord macaroni, and aparfait à la vanille."
"Yes, monsieur."
"Waiter, how is the wedding party getting along?"
"They're at the second course, monsieur."
"They have not got beyond that!"
"What a delightful fellow this dear Gustave is! because he doesn't eat, he fancies that nobody else has any appetite."
"Is the bride eating, waiter?"
"Yes, monsieur; she's eating everything, I may say."
"Everything!"
Gustave angrily resumed his seat at the table, and held out his plate, saying to his companion:
"Very good! then I will eat, too! Give me some capon, Arthur; give me a lot of it!"
"Ah! good, good! spoken like a man! Now you're a man again! There's nothing left of the capon but one drumstick and the carcass, but they're the most delicate parts."
"Give them to me, give them to me! Oh! what a fool, what an idiot, I have been! To give way to despair for a woman who makes sport of me, who eats everything, when she knows that I am consumed by grief!"
"You acted like a fool, and that's just what I've been killing myself telling you."
"Give me some wine!"
"Bravo! let's drink! This champagne is delicious, and I know what I'm talking about."
"Yes, I will think no more of her, I will forget everything, I will love some other woman."
"Pardieu! that's the true way! In love especially, I believe in homœopathy."
Gustave swallowed his glass of wine at a draught, then ate a few mouthfuls with a sort of avidity; but he soon pushed his plate away, and let his head fall on his breast, muttering:
"Oh! no, I shall never love another woman; I know well enough that it would be impossible."
"The deuce! here he is in another paroxysm of his passion! We shall have some difficulty in curing the dear boy; but we will succeed, even though that should necessitate our not leaving him for a second for ten years to come! Be yourself, Gustave, and finish your story, which, I presume, must be drawing near its end, and which interests me in the highest degree."
"Yes, yes; you are right!—I was saying that one morning, having gone to Monsieur Gerbault's house, I found Mademoiselle Adolphine alone. She greeted me with such a sorrowful air that I could not refrain from asking her what caused her sadness, and she replied: 'I suffer for your sake, I am grieved for you; for I know how dearly you love my sister, and I foresee how you will suffer when you learn that she is going to be married, and not to you.'
"'Great heaven!' I cried; 'can it be possible? Fanny, false to me! Fanny, give herself to another!'
"'Yes,' said Adolphine. 'It seems to me that it is especially cruel to let you hope on, when her marriage to Monsieur Auguste Monléard was decided on a fortnight ago.'
"'She is going to marry Monsieur Monléard!' I cried; 'she throws me over for that man! And she smiled at me only yesterday when I swore to love her all my life!'
"'That's the reason I determined to tell you all,' said Adolphine. 'I did not choose that you should be deceived any longer.'
"I need not tell you what a state of despair I was in. Adolphine tried in vain to comfort me; I could not believe in Fanny's treachery, and I insisted upon seeing her, and learning from her own lips that she preferred my rival to me.
"The next day, I found her alone. Can you believe that she greeted me with the same tranquillity, the same smile, as usual? So much so, that I cried: 'It isn't true, is it, Fanny, that you are going to marry another man?'—Thereupon, with a little pout to which she tried to give a fitting touch of melancholy, she replied: 'Yes, Gustave; it is true. Mon Dieu! you mustn't be angry with me. At all events, it will do no good, my friend; I have reflected. We haven't enough money to marry; we should have had to lead the sort of life in which one is always forced to count the cost before indulging in any pleasure, to see if it is compatible with one's means; and, frankly, it is not amusing to figure up whether one can afford to enjoy one's self a little, to buy a hat or a jewel which takes one's fancy. So I concluded that it was more sensible to marry Monsieur Monléard, who has a handsome fortune, and I have accepted his hand. But it seems to me that you shouldn't bear me a grudge, because I have acted like a sensible woman, and we can still remain friends.'
"'I, your friend!' I exclaimed, bursting into tears; 'when you give yourself to another, when you make me miserable for life!'
"I don't know what reply she made; but somebody came to tell her that the materials for her wedding gownhad arrived, and she hurried away. Her calmness, her indifference, exasperated me. When I was alone, all sorts of incoherent ideas assailed me, but I know that I was determined to die. I was about to leave the house, fully resolved not to survive Fanny's treachery, when suddenly I felt a caressing hand on my arm, while a sweet voice said to me in an imploring tone: 'Be a man, Gustave, be brave; resolve to endure this misfortune, which seems to break your heart to-day. Time will allay your suffering—you will love another woman, who will love you in return, who will understand your heart; and later you will be happy—much happier, perhaps, than she, who thinks of nothing but money! But, I entreat you, promise me that you will live!'
"It was Adolphine who spoke to me thus. Her tears were flowing freely. When I found that my grief was shared, I felt a little relieved, for unhappiness makes a man selfish, and, when we are unhappy, it seems to us that other people ought to suffer as we do. I promised Fanny's sister to renounce my thoughts of death, and I left that house, to which I shall never return!"
"I drink to good little Adolphine's health! For my part, I love that feeling heart—I shall never forget her. And our dear uncle, what said he when he learned the result of your love affair?"
"My uncle? Oh! he doesn't believe in love, not he!"
"He was quite right not to believe in your Mademoiselle Fanny's."
"He has no confidence in women."
"He has probably made a study of them."
"In fact, when I told him that Fanny was to marry another, he had the heartlessness to retort that that was lucky for me."
"Frankly, I agree with him; for, after all, my boy as the damsel didn't love you——"
"Why, yes, she did love me, before she knew this Monléard."
"She gave you the preference when there was nobody else."
"He turned her head by his magnificence, his presents."
"It is much better for you that it happened before your marriage rather than after.—Here's to your health! Ah! here's the Périgord macaroni—with truffles on top—that's the checker! Do you know this way of preparing macaroni?"
"It seems that he hastened the ceremony after our last interview; for that was only twelve days ago, and to-day I learned that the wedding was to take place at Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, to be followed by a banquet and ball here."
"Yes, and then you lost your head! You said to yourself: 'I will be there, I want to see what sort of a face the faithless creature will make when she sees me.'"
"True, monsieur, true. But they must have misinformed me as to the hour of the ceremony, for when I reached the church it was all over—they had gone."
"So much the better! that saved you one stab."
"Then I started off like a madman and ran all the way here, saying to myself: 'I simply must see her!'—And you know the rest, monsieur."
"I do, indeed; and if I hadn't been here, God knows what would have happened! But I'm a lucky dog; I almost always turn up when I'm wanted. Let us water the macaroni! I defy all the wedding parties in the place to dine better than me!"
Cherami had reached the dessert stage; he had amply repaired the ravages wrought in his stomach by the privation of the previous day, and he had watered his food so copiously with madeira, bordeaux, and champagne, that his face had become very red, his eyes very small, and his tongue very thick, which fact did not prevent his making constant use of it.
Gustave had drunk only two glasses of champagne; but, as he had eaten nothing at all, that had made him slightly tipsy, and he was beginning anew his trips from the dining-room to the corridor, when the waiter who served them hurried up to him, saying:
"The ladies are leaving the table, monsieur; I believe they are going to dress for the ball, for some of them have already put on their hats."
"Hurry back, then; take the bride's sister, Mademoiselle Adolphine, aside, and tell her that—Monsieur Gustave insists upon speaking to her—that I am waiting for her at the end of the corridor. Tell her that she simply must come; you understand, she must come! See, here are five francs more for you."
"Very good, monsieur. The bride's sister. But I don't know her, do I?"
"Mademoiselle Adolphine."
"Oh! yes, yes. I go, I fly, monsieur."
Gustave returned to the private room, where Cherami was occupied in admiring the bubbling of the champagne in his glass.
"She is coming! I am going to speak to her!" cried the young man.
"What! Do you mean that she's coming to join us here?"
"Yes. Oh! I am certain that she'll come. She would not like to drive me to do some crazy thing."
"All right! so much the better, sacrebleu! Let her come, and we'll tell her something. She's a sinner, a flirt."
"But it's Adolphine who's coming, not Fanny."
"Adolphine, the good little sister? Oh! that's a different matter. I will embrace her, I will even make love to her a bit, if she will permit me."
"They are going away, to dress for the ball; but first, I am determined—— Ah! someone is coming—a woman—it's she!"
It was, in fact, the young Adolphine, who ran along the corridor, trembling with distress and emotion, and entered the room, crying:
"What! Monsieur Gustave! you here! Why, in heaven's name, did you come?"
"Because I knew that she was here—and I hope to see her once more."
"Ah! mon Dieu! what madness!—And you, monsieur, you promised to take care of him."
"Why, mademoiselle, I am doing just that; I haven't lost sight of him a moment; and if I hadn't been here, to constantly restrain him, he would have gone twenty times to make trouble at your wedding feast, and to insult the husband."
"Oh! Gustave!"
"No, no, Adolphine; have no fear of that."
"Don't you trust what he says, mademoiselle; he's lost his head; luckily, I am here; I am calm and prudent."
"But why did you come here?"
"We came here to dine, mademoiselle, which we had a perfect right to do. For, after all, although a man may not belong to a wedding party, that need not prevent his dining, and dining very well too, I give you my word."
"But I can't stay any longer!—We are going away to dress; I am sure they are waiting for me. What do you want of me, Monsieur Gustave?"
"To beg you to give me an opportunity to speak to your sister once more."
"To Fanny? Why, it isn't possible! Besides, what would you say to her?"
"I will say good-bye to her forever; I will tell her that I hope that she will be happy—although she has wrecked my life."
"But how do you suppose that she can speak to you in secret? she is always surrounded; there's always somebody with us. What would people say? what would they think?"
"If you refuse, I will go and speak to her during the ball."
"Well—no—— Wait here, then; and, when we return from dressing, I will try—I will make her come through this corridor."
"Oh! thanks, thanks a thousand times! Ah! you are too kind!"
"I must go; adieu! But, in heaven's name, keep out of sight, don't show yourself!"
As she spoke, Adolphine made a sign of intelligence to Cherami, who imagined that the charming youngwoman was throwing him a kiss; but she disappeared just as he left the table to go to embrace her; and as the waiter entered the room at that moment, the ex-beau bestowed a resounding smack upon that functionary's cheek.
"Sacrebleu! what is this?" cried Cherami, roughly pushing back the waiter, who stood by the door in open-mouthed amazement at the caress he had received.—"Why the devil do you come up under my nose, waiter? Plague take the knave! I said to myself: 'Gad! this young lady uses very cheap soap!'"
"Pardon, monsieur; it isn't my fault; I was coming in, and you ran into my arms. I know well enough that it wasn't me you meant to embrace."
"It's lucky that you understand that."
"Waiter, what are the ladies doing now?"
"They are all going away, monsieur."
"And the men?"
"Some of them have gone, too; but many stayed, and are playing cards."
"And the Blanquette party, waiter—what are they doing now?"
"The Blanquette party are still at table, monsieur, and singing."
"Ah! I recognize them by that. They'll sit at table till ten o'clock, those people; the petty bourgeois sing at dessert, which is very bad form. However, I confess that I have sometimes gone so far as to hum a ditty myself; I have even composed one on occasion, one which Panard or Collé wouldn't have been ashamed to father. But I like a touch of smut myself; don't talk to me of your insipid ballads about roses and zephyrs and the springtime; no, nor your political ballads either;I abominate them; and yet, that's the kind of thing that makes great reputations; and I know men who would have been nothing more than common ballad-mongers, if they hadn't flattered parties and passions, and who have reached the very pinnacle of fame because they always end their couplets with the wordsfatherlandandliberty. O Armand Gouffé! O Désaugiers! you didn't resort to such methods, so very little is heard of you. You are none the less the real French ballad-makers; your fruitful and vigorous muse has discovered innumerable varied subjects and described them in song, which is much more difficult than to keep harping on the same refrain."
"But, my dear Monsieur Arthur, now that I am waiting for the return of the bride, to whom I shall say adieu forever, if your affairs call you elsewhere, do not hesitate to go. Leave me; I have abused your good-nature too far already."
"I, leave you! No, indeed! What do you take me for?—What! after accepting your suggestion that we should dine together, leave you all of a sudden at dessert? Fie! Only a cad would do that; and, thank God! I know what good-breeding is. Tell me, do I annoy you? Is my presence distasteful to you?"
"Ah! far from it, my dear sir; you have shown an interest in my affairs, which I shall never forget."
"We were born to be friends, and we are; that is settled, your affairs are mine, what concerns you concerns me. Wherever there is danger for you, it is my duty to look after you; and, you understand, if, while you are talking with the bride, her new husband should happen to come prowling about here, I will just step in front of him and say: 'I am very sorry, my boy, but you can't pass!'"
"Oh! a thousand thanks for your devotion to me! Waiter! waiter! our bill!"
"Here it is, monsieur."
"You pay for the dinner; that's all right; but as we are to stay here some little time perhaps, we must have something to keep us busy."
"Order whatever you want."
"Waiter, make us a nice little rum punch; it's excellent for the digestion; the English eat a great deal, but they drink punch at dessert, and they're all right. Would you like to play cards, to kill time?"
"Thanks, it would be impossible for me to put my mind on the game."
"I don't insist. I am rather fond of cards, but I don't carry that passion to excess. Pardieu! I don't say that I may not take a hand by and by at the Blanquette function. Did I tell you that I knew them? They're linen-drapers; that sort of people play rather high; but that doesn't frighten me. Ah! here's our punch! I divine it by the odor; the table is excellent at this house."
Cherami lost no time in partaking of the punch. Gustave refused it at first, but finally consented to take a glass.
The night had come; the lights were lighted on all sides. With the darkness, the unhappy lover's thoughts became more gloomy, his suffering more intense; he buried his face in his hands, muttering:
"It's all over! O Fanny! Fanny! you will belong to another! Ah! I shall die of my grief!"
"Sapristi!" said Cherami to himself, swallowing several glasses of punch in rapid succession; "this youngster is very lachrymose; he isn't lively in his cups. With me, it's different; I feel in the mood to dance at all the wedding parties, and to play cards too—only I shall have toborrow a few napoleons from my new friend, in order to be able to tempt fortune. I have an idea that I shall have a vein of luck! I say, my dear friend, aren't we drinking any more?"