"MADEMOISELLE:"My unfortunate son did not forget you before he died; as he was going out to fight, he wrote a few lines leaving you the unexpended portion of the property he inherited from his mother, and recommending you to mygenerosity. It is my purpose to carry out my poor son's last wishes. He had less than twelve hundred francs a year remaining; but from this day I settle an income of six thousand francs upon you, as a charge upon my own estate; the first year's will be paid to you at any time."VERMONCEY."
"MADEMOISELLE:
"My unfortunate son did not forget you before he died; as he was going out to fight, he wrote a few lines leaving you the unexpended portion of the property he inherited from his mother, and recommending you to mygenerosity. It is my purpose to carry out my poor son's last wishes. He had less than twelve hundred francs a year remaining; but from this day I settle an income of six thousand francs upon you, as a charge upon my own estate; the first year's will be paid to you at any time.
"VERMONCEY."
After reading the letter, Adeline handed it to Sans-Cravate, who read it in his turn, then looked his sister in the eye. They understood each other without a word, and Adeline immediately wrote to Albert's father the following reply:
"I am grateful for your kindness, monsieur, but I do not desire nor can I accept anything from you. What I desired was Albert's love, and his name for my child. Heaven has denied me these, and the money you offer me now would seem to be the price of my dishonor."
"I am grateful for your kindness, monsieur, but I do not desire nor can I accept anything from you. What I desired was Albert's love, and his name for my child. Heaven has denied me these, and the money you offer me now would seem to be the price of my dishonor."
Adeline gave the letter to her brother to read.
"Well done!" he cried; "sacrebleu! I couldn't have done it better myself."
Monsieur Vermoncey's messenger went away with the letter, and since then they had heard nothing more from him.
Sans-Cravate did his utmost to cheer his sister, to bring an occasional smile to her lips; but his task was the more difficult because he himself was oppressed by a burden of grief which he could not succeed in dislodging.
At night, when he went home to Adeline, and sat down with her, intending to divert her by describing some incidents that he had witnessed during the day, his thoughtswould go back to the past; after he had said a few words, he would fall into a profound reverie, and seem to forget that his sister was by his side.
One evening, when he had been for a long time lost in thought, Adeline went to him, laid her hand gently on his shoulder, and said:
"You too have troubles, my dear, besides those I have caused you. I remember what you said to me, coming from Lagny: 'I have troubles of my own, and I'll tell you about them some day.'—Has not that day come? I can't promise to comfort you, but I shall understand your suffering, and it is something to have a friend who understands what we feel."
Sans-Cravate gazed sadly at his sister, kissed her on the forehead, ran his hands through his hair, and said:
"Sacrédié!you are right. I will tell you the story. It's a very simple story, however, and won't take long.—I loved a woman, and my love was returned, at least I thought so. At all events, Bastringuette was mine, as you were Monsieur Albert's—except that I did not seduce her; because, you see, in Paris, a girl knows well enough what she's doing when she gives her heart away; you may please her, but you don't seduce her. Bastringuette was a good girl, a little free in her manners, and a little bold in her talk; but I loved her as she was, and she—she loved me as I was, and yet I must admit that I didn't live the kind of life then that I do now. I gambled and drank and got drunk, and fought for a word, for nothing at all; and I spent in one day all I'd earn in a week; but she forgave my foolishness, and she took care of my room, and my linen—and all without a trace of selfishness, for sometimes she had to give me money for my dinner, although she had none too much for herself; shewas amarchande des quatre saisons, and didn't always earn in a week as much as I'd spend in one evening with Jean Ficelle and other tipplers."
"Poor girl!" said Adeline; "she loved you dearly!"
"You think so! and I thought so too. But you'll see in a minute that I was mistaken. I had a friend too, a comrade, younger than me; his name was Paul, he was a messenger, like me, and his stand was alongside of mine. This Paul had such a sweet, gentle way with him—and such manners—something that attracted you right away. And with it all, a hard worker—never loafed, never got drunk, and never gave me anything but good advice. So I looked on him as my brother; I'd have fought for him or jumped into the fire for him! Well, Bastringuette left me, to go with Paul; and he, swearing all the time that he never saw her, that he loved another woman, made assignations with Bastringuette—met her in a different quarter, where they didn't think they'd be seen."
"Are you quite sure of that, brother?"
"Ah! if anyone had told me, I wouldn't have believed it! but I saw 'em—saw 'em with my own eyes! and then I couldn't doubt it any longer. I intended at first to be content with despising 'em, but one day—I had been off with Jean Ficelle, and I was a little light-headed—I saw Paul on a street corner with my faithless wench. Gad! I couldn't hold myself back; I insisted on fighting; I jumped at him, and he didn't defend himself——"
"O mon Dieu! did you kill him?"
"No, no; he was only wounded, and that by a mere chance: he fell on a paving stone. But he's been well a long while. Luckily, I never see him now; he's taken another stand, near Rue Taitbout, I think."
"But if you should see him, my dear, you wouldn't fight with him again, I hope; once is quite enough—ah! sometimes it's too much."
Adeline put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Sans-Cravate replied:
"Oh, no, no! I'm done with him! I shall never speak to him again. But heaven has—oh! it's a very strange thing!"
"What is, my dear brother?"
"Just imagine that, by the merest chance, I discovered, not long ago, a secret which would give this Paul a name, a father, and a great fortune, if he knew it; for he's a foundling, who don't know anything about his family; and it's only me that knows it; I should only have to say a word to make him happy and rich and distinguished."
"Well, brother?"
"Well! I won't say it!"
"Ah! that is very wrong, my dear, to deprive anyone of his rightful fortune, and, what is much worse, of his father's caresses! Look you, brother; I am sure that in the bottom of your heart this troubles you, because you feel that you are doing wrong!"
"That may be; but that don't prevent me from keeping my secret. He'd give Bastringuette hats and shawls and jewelry; he'd take her about in a carriage, and they'd play the swell at restaurants, and she'd be all the more pleased that she threw me over for him. No, sacrebleu! no! I won't have that!"
"But, brother——"
"That's enough; don't say anything more about it, don't ever mention it again! you can't change my determination, and you would simply make me furious with myself and them and everybody else, that's all!"
More than three weeks had passed since this conversation, and had brought about no change in the condition of the brother and sister, when, on a fine winter's morning, Sans-Cravate—who was alone at his stand, Jean Ficelle having failed to appear there for more than a week—saw an elderly woman coming toward him, looking from side to side as if she were not perfectly sure where she wanted to go.
She was a small, thin, pale-faced woman, somewhat over sixty, evidently in feeble health. Her dress was very simple and modest, but of bourgeois cut; it did not denote poverty, but pointed to an economical habit not far removed therefrom. Despite that, she carried herself with distinction; and the amiability of her expression and manner imparted to her person that general aspect of gentility which is apparent beneath the humblest garments, and which the most fashionable and gorgeous costume cannot give to those who have not received it from nature or by education.
This lady, having at last decided to address Sans-Cravate, walked up to him and said:
"I wonder if you could tell me, monsieur? You see, I am not quite sure—I don't quite know how to explain it to you."
"Are you looking for somebody, or for some address in this quarter, madame? I have had my stand here for a long time, and I can probably tell you what you want to know."
"It isn't an address, but a certain person whom I would like to obtain some information about; in fact, to find out something that interests me very deeply. First of all, monsieur, tell me this: are you the only messenger on this street?"
"No, madame; there's Jean Ficelle—but he don't happen to be here now; in fact, he hasn't been to work for several days; I suppose he's tippling somewhere."
"What sort of looking man is this Jean Ficelle?"
"Oh! he ain't handsome—a little, short, thin man, near thirty years old."
"He's not the man I want. The one I am looking for is only twenty-three, and looks less than that; you would hardly think he was twenty; he has a graceful figure and a fine face, and his voice is as sweet as his eyes."
Sans-Cravate frowned slightly as he replied:
"Ah! you are talking about a man named Paul."
"Paul!" cried the old woman; "that's the name. Do you know him?"
"I should say so! as he used to stand here alongside of me. It ain't so very long since he went somewhere else to stand."
"He is a messenger! it is all true, then! poor boy! he did it for me, I am sure of it!"
Tears prevented the old lady from going on. Sans-Cravate was obliged to support her until her emotion had subsided. At last, having recovered herself to some extent, she grasped Sans-Cravate's hand and said:
"Thanks, monsieur, thanks. If you knew what a fine fellow you had for your comrade, if you knew what a noble heart he has, and of all he has done for me! But I must tell you, monsieur, for I want everybody to know it; such noble conduct deserves to be known, if for nothing else than to lead others to imitate it.—My name is Desroches; my husband was a tradesman, deservedly esteemed as well for his kindly nature as for his strict probity in business. One day—we were well off, then—my husband, happening to see the procession of the poorchildren who had been abandoned by their families, was deeply touched and interested by the face of one of them; it was young Paul, who was then ten years old at most. We had no children; our happiness was perfect but for that fact; my husband offered to take charge of that child, and his offer was readily accepted."
"I knew all this, madame," said Sans-Cravate; "Paul has told me how he was taken into Monsieur Desroches's family, and became his clerk; and then how your husband was crushed by misfortunes and bankruptcies, and died—of grief, perhaps, because he was obliged to break his engagements."
"Yes, monsieur; yes, that is all true, still it isn't all; but it's all you know, I am sure; for Paul would not have told you of his noble conduct."
"No; I have told you all I know."
"Well, monsieur, Paul, who was eighteen and a half when I lost my husband, said to me then: 'Don't be distressed, my dear mother; not only will I take care of you, but I propose that my benefactor's memory shall be respected; I propose to pay all that he owed, and by working hard I can do it.'—And, sure enough, the poor boy called my husband's creditors together, and promised to pay them if they would give him time. They were so moved by his self-sacrificing spirit, that they told him to arrange his own terms. The debts amounted to only eight thousand francs. Paul asked for five years in which to pay the whole; then he told me not to worry about myself, that he would provide for all my needs—and he left me, to seek employment. I didn't see him for several days; at last he came and told me that he was employed in a business house in Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and that he was obliged to live near by, but that he would cometo see me at least twice a week, and would keep his agreement with my husband's creditors. And from that time on, monsieur, every three months he paid the amount he had promised, and brought me the receipts. 'Take these, my dear mother,' he would say; 'I am as happy as can be, because through me my benefactor's name is respected;'—and I, monsieur, never had a suspicion that the poor boy hadn't found any employment, but had become a messenger in order to fulfil his engagements; and that he worked without rest, and took no pleasure at all, so that he could put aside for me, for my husband's honor, all the money he earned!"
Again Madame Desroches could not hold back her tears; she drew her handkerchief, and paused a moment to wipe her eyes.
Sans-Cravate, for his part, tried in vain to avoid being moved; despite his grimaces, despite the churlish manner which he struggled to maintain, and although he twisted his mouth and bit his lips, two great tears escaped from his eyes, while he muttered between his teeth:
"By all that's good! It was well done of him, all the same! that's what I call honor! And to think that a man will get ugly and lose a friend, just for a wink of a woman's eye, for an infernal petticoat and what's underneath it! Bah! what a fool! Well, I can't stand it, I must let the cat out of the bag!—How did you find out that Paul was a messenger?" he asked aloud, after pretending to blow his nose in order to wipe his eyes unobserved.
"In this way, monsieur. Four or five months ago, I was sick, and Paul stayed with me and nursed me; he did not go to work at all. 'Don't you worry,' he'd say; 'there's another clerk, who has promised to take my placeand do my work.'—I must tell you, monsieur, that I live on Vieille Rue du Temple, near Rue Barbette——"
"Near Rue Barbette!" cried Sans-Cravate; "a very high house, with a passageway, and a grocery on the street floor?"
"Yes, monsieur; that's the house."
"Go on, madame, go on."
"Well! one morning, when I had been getting better for some days, Paul, who had gone back to his office,—at least, so he told me,—came to make sure that I was still improving. He had been with me a little while, when a tall girl came in with some fruit I had ordered of my regular fruit dealer, on Rue Barbette.—But what's the matter, monsieur? you seem agitated."
"It's nothing, madame; I'll tell you in a minute. Go on, please, and finish your story."
"This tall girl gave a cry of surprise when she saw Paul; I saw that she knew him and that she was astonished to find him dressed so well. I noticed that Paul whispered a few words to her, but I found out nothing then. But when Bastringuette—that was the girl's name—came again to bring something from the fruit woman, who is her cousin, she cried out: 'Ah! madame, that's a mighty fine fellow, that Monsieur Paul!' And—but why are you weeping, monsieur?"
"Go on—pray go on, madame."
"Well, monsieur, some little time ago, Paul ceased to come as usual; I was anxious and worried, when Bastringuette appeared and brought me the money Paul was to pay that day to one of the creditors; she told me that he had been obliged to take a short journey, and would come to see me when he returned. To cut the story short, monsieur, time passed and Paul did not come, butBastringuette continued to bring me money from him. I questioned her; she was embarrassed and confused in her answers, and I thought that I understood that Paul no longer owned his good clothes, and that he would not come to see me in his jacket for fear I should discover his occupation. I caught the wordmessenger, and several times she mentioned the name of this street——"
"Enough, enough, madame!—Ah! Paul! my poor Paul! So it is true, after all! You never deceived me; it wasn't to see Bastringuette that you went to that house!"
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"What do I mean: that I am a beggarly brute—a cur! that I struck Paul and wounded him, because I thought he was living with my mistress, when he was thinking of nobody but you and of his benefactor's good name! Damnation! but I will make up for it all; I will make him as happy as he deserves to be."
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"Oh! let us go and find him first; I long to embrace him—if only he'll forgive me. Come, my good woman, come along; if you can't run, I'll carry you; but let's make haste, for I can't hold in any longer!"
Sans-Cravate seized Madame Desroches's arm and dragged her away. To keep pace with the messenger, who said that it was in his power to make her adopted son happy, the old lady seemed to have recovered the strength and agility of youth.
They reached Paul's new stand, and found him seated on a stone bench, lost in thought. Sans-Cravate dropped Madame Desroches's arm, ran to Paul, threw his arms about him, and kissed him again and again, shedding tears, and saying in a broken voice:
"Do you forgive me—my poor Paul? I know all—I was in the wrong, and I struck you. If you don't forgive me, I'll jump into the water! Take care of my sister."
Paul was utterly at a loss to understand what had happened, until he saw Madame Desroches and divined that his conduct was known. The old lady likewise embraced the young man, weeping freely. Thereupon the passers-by and idlers began to gather about them, wondering what that young messenger had done to be embraced thus effusively; and Sans-Cravate took Madame Desroches's arm and Paul's, and led them away.
"Come away," he said; "I have something important to tell you; and all these people, who probably think that we're going to show them some tricks, are beginning to make me mad."
These three persons, who were so overjoyed to be together, soon reached Sans-Cravate's humble lodging, where poor Liline, taken by surprise by that visit, strove to do the honors of her bedroom as best she could. He presented Paul to her, saying:
"This is the man I was jealous of, sister; I have found out to-day that he never deceived me. So you can imagine how happy I shall be to put him in the way of recovering his father, his name, and his fortune!"
Paul stared at Sans-Cravate with an exclamation of surprise; he feared that he had not heard aright. Madame Desroches begged the messenger to explain himself. He asked nothing better, and, in order to make his story clearer, he began by telling of the relations of Albert with his sister, his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey, his duel with Adeline's seducer, and, lastly, what he had heard Madame Baldimer say to the elder Vermoncey—thenames, the cross on the forearm, and all the corroborative circumstances.
"But my heart seems to have divined the truth," said Paul, joyfully; "and Monsieur Vermoncey himself—he showed so much friendship and interest."
"Does he know you?" asked Sans-Cravate.
Paul gave the particulars of his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey; whereupon Sans-Cravate clapped his hands, jumped up and down, swore, wept, and shouted:
"Let us go, my friends, let us go at once to Monsieur Vermoncey; he has suffered and groaned long enough; we must hurry up and give him a son to comfort him a little for the loss of his other children. Madame Desroches must come with us; it will be better for her to be there, to confirm what I say.—You stay here, sister, and wait for me. I shall soon be back, and with good news, I am sure."
Sans-Cravate whispered to his sister, who smiled and promised to obey; then he ran out to fetch a cab, into which he put Madame Desroches and Paul, got in after them, and ordered the driver to take them to Monsieur Vermoncey's house.
"You must let me speak first," he said to them on the way; "the sight of me will be painful to him at the outset, but afterward, I trust, he won't be sorry that he's seen me again."
When they reached the house, Sans-Cravate took the servant by storm, and compelled him to usher him into his master's study.
Monsieur Vermoncey started back in surprise; his eyes assumed an expression of hopeless melancholy when he saw Sans-Cravate, but he motioned to him to come forward.
"Your sister has reflected on my offer, no doubt," he said. "I am still prepared to abide by it, for I should be very glad to repair my son's wrong-doing."
"Let us say nothing about that, monsieur," replied Sans-Cravate; "if your son did wrong, heaven has attended to the expiation, and that—event made me as wretched as it did you. But I have come to-day to make you happy, and it is the least I can do after causing you so much sorrow."
Monsieur Vermoncey stared at the messenger in amazement, but Sans-Cravate went on:
"Monsieur, chance made me acquainted with the whole story of a misstep of your younger days, for which that Madame Baldimer was so bent on punishing you. Well! the child you had at that time by a poor girl named Marie Delbart, that—abandoned child I have found, and I have brought him back to you!"
"Is it possible?" faltered Monsieur Vermoncey, rising and going to Sans-Cravate's side. "Oh! monsieur, is this true? are you quite sure of what you say?"
"Sacrebleu! yes, I am sure of my facts, sure of what I say!"
"You are aware of his existence—where is he?"
"Oh! he ain't far away!"
And Sans-Cravate opened the door behind him, took Paul by the hand, and pushed him into his father's arms.
"I robbed you of one son," he said, "but I give you back another. That goes a little way toward reconciling me to myself."
Monsieur Vermoncey strained Paul to his heart, then gazed affectionately into his face, crying:
"I am not mistaken—it is the same young man who aroused such a deep interest in my heart. Yes, yes, heis my son, my heart divined it long ago; and the more I look at him, the more clearly I recognize the unhappy Marie's features in his."
"Yes, but we want you to be certain of the fact," said Sans-Cravate. "Here is Madame Desroches, the widow of the excellent man who took Paul away from—where he was; she will tell you what paper he had about him when they—and then you will see the cross on his left arm. You'll find that it's all just as that beautiful lady—who is so vindictive—told you the other day; and you'll find out, too, that you not only have recovered your son, but that he's the finest fellow on earth; and if they gave the cross to everyone that deserves it, it would have been shining on his breast long ago."
Monsieur Vermoncey needed no further proofs to convince him that Paul was his son; however, he listened with profound interest to good Madame Desroches, who did not fail to tell of the young messenger's noble conduct toward herself.
When the old lady had finished, Monsieur Vermoncey took his son's hand and gazed proudly at him. But in a moment he said, in a faltering tone:
"My dear son, you will not be so proud of your father as he is of you; you have every right to reproach him for his desertion of you. But I was very young, I was poor, I did not know what it is to be a father—and I have blamed myself so bitterly for that sin!"
Paul threw himself into his father's arms, begging him to say no more, and Sans-Cravate added:
"You must forget the past, and think of nothing but your present happiness."
"Yes," said Paul, pressing his former comrade's hand. "But since I am taking Albert's place here, your sistermust accept now what he and my father have done for her.—Am I not carrying out your wishes in this, father?"
"Yes, my son," was the reply; "indeed, from this time forth I shall approve whatever you do."
"Shake!" said Sans-Cravate to Paul; "I will accept anything from you; if you should offer me a million, I'd take it—I must make up for my infernal stupidity with regard to you. But my sister's waiting for us—and—and——"
Sans-Cravate whispered the name of Elina. Paul instantly asked his father's permission to leave him a moment; and Monsieur Vermoncey gave it, on the condition that he would bring Adeline to him, whom he desired to embrace, and that Madame Desroches would remain and talk with him at greater length about his son. The old lady asked nothing better.
In a very few minutes, Sans-Cravate and Paul were with Adeline, who, in accordance with her brother's suggestion, had gone to see little Elina and had told her of the great change in Paul's position. When the two friends arrived, they found the little dressmaker weeping bitterly, because she was persuaded that her lover, now that he had become rich, would no longer think of marrying her.
Paul hastened to console Elina, and Sans-Cravate said:
"You must strike while the iron's hot, and present your sweetheart to your father right away; at this moment, he can't refuse you anything—later, nobody knows."
Paul approved this suggestion; but Elina was afraid to go to Monsieur Vermoncey's; she trembled at the thought, and refused; it required all her lover's eloquence, all the entreaties of Adeline and her brother, toinduce her to accompany them. They succeeded at last in allaying her terror, and ere long the two girls stood before Monsieur Vermoncey.
Sans-Cravate presented his sister, whose sad, sweet face and lovely eyes brimming with tears aroused Monsieur Vermoncey's most affectionate interest; he embraced her and called her his daughter. Then he fixed his eyes on little Elina, who was trying to hide behind a curtain, and said, with a smile:
"But who is this other young lady?"
Paul stepped forward, blushing, and told his father of his love for Elina; he dwelt upon the delicacy of the girl, who loved him when he had nothing and offered to give him her little fortune; then he told of the care she had lavished on him during his illness.
Monsieur Vermoncey went behind the curtains and led her forth, as red as a cherry, into the middle of the room; he kissed her on the forehead, and said to her:
"You desired to make my son happy when he had nothing; now that he is rich, it is only fair that he should do as much for you."
"Ah! that is what I call talking!" cried Sans-Cravate. "Look you, monsieur, do you know what this comes to? why, that you've recovered all your children to-day!"
On returning home with his sister, Sans-Cravate was very gay and happy; but he glanced constantly from side to side, as if he hoped to meet someone. Adeline noticed it and smiled to herself, but said nothing. Early in the evening, someone knocked softly at the door of their room.
"Hark! who can have come to see us?" said Sans-Cravate, looking at his sister; "I don't know of any visitor we expect."
Adeline made no reply, but went to open the door, and Bastringuette stood before them.
Sans-Cravate was so agitated that he could not speak; his first impulse was to throw his arms about the tall girl's neck; but he checked himself, because he reflected that the fact that Paul was not her lover did not prove that she was not attached to somebody else.
Bastringuette remained standing in front of him; she glanced coyly at him, and finally, as if she divined his thoughts, she held out her hand, saying:
"I was a flirt—you were ugly—but I love you still, and after this you needn't be afraid, because, you see, a woman's like a saucepan: when it has once been on the fire, it's better than a new one."
Sans-Cravate threw his arms about her.
"To make sure you don't change again, I'll marry you!" he said.
"That ain't always the safest way," rejoined Bastringuette, with a smile; "but as I've been a little free before marriage, I promise you I won't be afterward."
"And I'll take you to Auvergne, to live with my father; how does that strike you?"
"To Auvergne—I should say so! I'm so fond of chestnuts."
A few weeks later, Paul led pretty Elina to the altar; she had ceased to be a dressmaker at the same time that her lover had ceased to be a messenger. And good Madame Desroches consented to live with the young couple, who treated her as their mother.
As for Madame Baldimer, she had left Paris for America immediately after Albert's death.
Albert's friends continue to stroll on the boulevards, cigar in mouth. Mouillot is still a high liver, Balivan asdistraught as ever, and Dupétrain still insists on putting people to sleep. Monsieur Varinet no longer lends five hundred francs on an olive, because he is afraid of having to keep it too long in his purse, and Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir, having obtained his release from Sainte-Pélagie, bends his energies to piling up other debts.
Madame Plays continues to disregard her husband's rights; but she cannot endure the sight of Tobie; she holds him in horror, because she believes that he killed Albert. Young Pigeonnier consoles himself for the rigor of the superb Herminie with Aunt Abraham's fortune and his reputation for valor.
On the day before his departure for Auvergne with his sister and Bastringuette, Sans-Cravate saw two men in the street, handcuffed together, on their way to the Préfecture, escorted by gendarmes. He recognized Laboussole and Jean Ficelle. The latter seemed a little abashed to be seen with such an escort; but Monsieur Laboussole kept up a continual outcry of:
"It's a mistake of the gendarmes; they take us for somebody else! That trick's been played on me seven or eight times before!"
"That's how I should have ended, perhaps," thought Sans-Cravate, as he looked after them, "if I'd listened to that ne'er-do-well's advice! for there's no mistake about it, when a man keeps going on sprees, and never works, he seldom comes to a good end."
It was just five o'clock in the afternoon, when a fashionably dressed young man, of comely aspect, and possessed of an attractive countenance, although his large blue eyes sometimes expressed a decided penchant for raillery, entered the café which stands, or stood, at the corner of Faubourg Poissonnière and the boulevard, on the right as you turn into the latter.
The young man looked into the first room, then into the others in succession, and at last said to himself:
"No one! not a single one of them has come! Probably not a single one of them will come! Five years is quite long enough to forget an appointment. However, I remembered it. I am sure that they are not all dead, for I met Dodichet within two months, and I saw Dubotté at the theatre less than a week ago. Lucien is the only one I haven't heard of for some time. Well, I'll wait a while. Everyone is entitled to the fifteen minutes' grace."
And the young man, whose name was Adhémar Monbrun, seated himself at a table, took up a newspaper, ordered apetit verreof chartreuse, and read a review of the play which had had a successful first performance the night before, but which the newspaper critic abused because the author was not a friend of his. Which fact,luckily, was not likely to prevent the play from making its way and achieving a long run, because the public was beginning to take at their true value the articles of those aristarchs of the press, who took for their motto, generally speaking: "No one shall be allowed to have any cleverness except ourselves and our friends."
Adhémar had not been reading the paper two minutes, when a man, who had just entered the café, walked straight to the table at which he was seated, and tapped him on the shoulder, saying:
"Well, my boy, here I am, too; as prompt as the sun in pleasant weather. I didn't forget our appointment, you see. Good-afternoon, Adhémar, I am delighted to see you once more! You're well, I trust? So am I, as you see. Everybody says that I have a prosperous face. Indeed, sometimes it irritates me to hear it, because I have noticed that prosperity often has a stupid look. But I hope that mine isn't so bad as that!"
This second individual was a man of about thirty years, who looked fully as old as he was, because he was a little inclined to corpulency; rather below than above medium height, with a full, high-colored face, always wreathed in smiles, a forest of light hair which curled naturally, china-blue eyes, as round as a cat's, and large mutton-chop whiskers—such was Philémon Dubotté, who considered himself a very good-looking fellow, and paid court to all the ladies except his own wife, whom he neglected shamefully, but who, on the contrary, adored him, and was always lavishing caresses on him. But the ladies are often like that: the colder you are with them, the more ardent they are with you; perhaps I shall be told that it is because they want to warm you.
Adhémar shook hands with the new-comer.
"How are you, Philémon! come and sit down. Yes, you have a look of robust health which does one good to see!"
"I haven't the look of it only, I beg you to believe. I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis. By the way, is Porte Saint-Denis still standing?"
"Yes, to be sure!"
"I didn't know; so many things are being demolished in these days! Well, then, I repeat: I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis."
"I see that you remembered."
"Why in the devil shouldn't I?"
"In five years one forgets so many things, my friend!"
"In love, that may be; but not in friendship."
"Men forget in friendship, as well as in love. Memory is a rare thing in this world, especially memory of the heart."
"Ah! there you are! the same as ever—no confidence in anything or anybody!"
"Is it my fault, my dear fellow, if my confidence has always been betrayed? Time destroys all our illusions, and in the last five years I have lost an infernal lot of them."
"Well, I haven't lost anything at all. I still adore the fair sex, which, I venture to say, repays my adoration with interest—too earnestly, in fact. For I have a wife—you don't know my wife, I believe? I'll introduce you to her; my dear fellow, she adores me, she idolizes me! It's a genuine passion. When she goes half a day without seeing me, she's as good as dead: she doesn't eat, she pines and languishes, sometimes she weeps even. When I come home, I have to scold her. 'Éléonore,' I say—her name's Éléonore—'why, Nonore, what doesthis mean? What! can't I stay out a little late with friends, without finding you in tears when I come home?' And she throws her arms round my neck, and says: 'I thought you'd fallen off the top of an omnibus! I beg you, my love, don't ride in the three-sou seats. Go inside, Philémon, I implore you; ride inside; you'll make me so much happier!'—That's the kind of a woman my wife is, and I assure you it's an infernal bore to be loved like that!"
"You complain because the bride is too fair, but it won't always be so."
"I trust not—poor Nonore! If she knew how unworthy I am of such adoration—for I am a double-dyed villain: I can't see a pretty face without ogling it. Ah! I see Lucien yonder. Well, well! I really believe we shall have the whole party."
The individual who was approaching the table at which the two friends were seated was a young man of twenty-six, tall and slight, and extremely thin; his face was pale, but his features were rather fine; the expression of the eyes was very sweet, and his manners as well as his speech were calculated to inspire interest. His dress was extremely neat, but did not denote affluence; his black frock-coat, buttoned to the chin, had evidently been brushed frequently, and you would hardly have dared to detain him by grasping one of its skirts, lest it should remain in your hand. His black cravat showed only a tiny bit of collar, and his hat seemed to have been scrubbed with water; but his gray trousers were spotlessly clean; and his shoes, albeit not of patent leather, were carefully polished. The young man's name was Lucien Grischard.
As soon as he caught sight of him, Adhémar rose and extended his hand, crying out:
"How are you, Lucien, dear old Lucien! how glad I am to see you! for it's a long while—nearly two years—since I laid eyes on you."
"That is true, Monsieur Adhémar, and I am very glad to see you, too. I have been waiting impatiently for this day, which was to bring us together."
"Why on earth do you call memonsieur, and not Adhémar, as you used to? Am I not still your old boarding-school comrade?"
"Forgive me! but that was so long ago, and for the last five years you have had nothing but success in literary and dramatic work; you have become a celebrity! while I have remained in obscurity."
"My dear Lucien, if celebrity is to result in separating us from our friends, we ought to shrink from it instead of longing for it. I fancy that mine hasn't yet acquired such dimensions as to make me a subject of envy."
"Oh! pray don't think that I ever had a suspicion of that sentiment when I heard of your triumphs. On the contrary, I was always overjoyed, and said to myself: 'He, at least, is making his way!'"
While this third member of the party was talking with Adhémar, the sandy-haired Philémon scrutinized him with unremitting attention, and the aspect of the threadbare coat and the cleaned hat did not seem to add great zest to his friendship; however, he too shook hands with Lucien, and said to him in an almost patronizing tone:
"Good-afternoon, Lucien! how are you, my boy? Sapristi! you haven't put on much flesh since I saw you last!"
"I can't say the same for you, Philémon, for you are almost the shape of a barrel."
"Oh! a barrel; that's putting it a little strong; but, after all, I would rather resemble a barrel than the barrel of a gun."
Instead of losing his temper at this comparison, Lucien laughed heartily, while Adhémar interposed with:
"Well, well, messieurs, how's this? old schoolfellows meeting after five years, and making unkind remarks to each other! is that the way to meet after a lustrum has passed over our heads, and have you become so sensitive that you lose your tempers over a jest?"
"Oh! I am not angry in the least," replied Lucien; "far from it; Philémon's remark made me laugh, as you see."
"For my part," said Dubotté, "I confess that I can't endure being compared to a barrel; any sobriquet you please, except that. But I don't bear Lucien any ill will. Come, sit down here with us, my dear fellow, and take something."
"Thanks; but we're not all here yet: someone is missing—Dodichet."
"Oh! we can't count on him. Was Dodichet ever a man of his word? Why, he doesn't know what it is to keep a promise! He's a good fellow enough, but an erratic, rattle-brained creature, who always has a thousand schemes on hand, but never carries out one of them, and never remembers one day what he said the day before."
"The devil! you judge him rather harshly, Philémon!"
"I am simply telling the truth. However, I've seen very little of him for five years; he may have mended his ways."
"No," said Adhémar; "Dodichet is just the same; I have happened to meet him several times, and I havebeen sorry to see that our old friend has not grown any more sensible. He was in a position to succeed, for he's not a fool, and he inherited some money from his parents; but he thinks of nothing but enjoying life, of makingbonnes blagues, as he expresses it; and they don't always succeed; some of them have cost him dear. I believe that he is almost ruined now; and, unfortunately, he hasn't yet decided upon any profession."
"Poor Dodichet!" said Lucien; "he must be very unhappy, then."
"He, unhappy! oh! he'll never be that. He laughs at everything, everything iscouleur de rosewith him; and he is convinced that he will have a fine house, horses and carriages, and a hundred thousand francs a year, some day. He has a very happy disposition."
"Why, here he is, on my word!" cried Philémon; "yes, it's really he—he has remembered our appointment. Well, he has a better memory than I supposed."
Another person had, in fact, entered the café. It was a man of twenty-six or twenty-seven years, of medium height, well set up, with dark brown hair, a slightly flushed face, sharp eyes, turned-up nose, and a huge mouth—everything, in short, which denotes a jovial companion. His costume was a little eccentric: his trousers were unconscionably full in the legs and very tight at the hips; his waistcoat was of Scotch plaid with enormous squares, and his coat was so short that it barely covered half of his posterior. On his head was a gray hat of an indescribable shape, but remotely resembling a snail's shell. Lastly, he carried in his hand a light cane with an ivory head, which head he was forever stuffing into his mouth or his nose, and at times he scratched his ear with it. Such was Monsieur Fanfan Dodichet, who, on enteringthe café, swung his cane in such a way as to strike a newspaper out of the hands of an old habitué of the place, who was reading it as he sipped his glass of beer.
The old gentleman looked up and cast an angry glance at the person who had torn his newspaper into strips; and Dodichet, instead of apologizing for his awkwardness, laughed in his face, and remarked:
"They'll bring you theTintamarre; it's much more entertaining. I am sure that you were bored by what you were reading; I saw that when I came in, and I said to myself: 'There's a man who longs to change his paper; I'll give him an opportunity.'"
Without waiting for a reply, Dodichet examined all the occupied tables; and discovering at last the persons he sought, shouted, as if he were in his own house:
"Ah! there they are! those are they! O happy fate!"
Then he began to sing:
"For heaven's sake, hold your tongue, Dodichet!" said Dubotté, affecting not to see the hand which the new-comer held out to him; "you will compromise us. The idea of singing like that in a café! What do you look like, anyway? These people will be giving you a sou!"
"Well! if everybody here gives me a sou, that will make a very tidy little sum; but our handsome blond is always afraid of compromising himself! He is truly superb, this Dubotté!—Do you know, Dubotté, you make me think of the sun, on my word! I can't look at you without squinting. But aren't we all here? Good-evening, messieurs! I haven't forgotten our appointment of fiveyears ago, you see. That surprises you, doesn't it? well, it surprises me too, on my honor! Ah! there's Lucien, dear old Lucien, whom I haven't seen, I believe, since our agreement.—Give us your hand, Lucien—
"'Cette main, cette main si jolie!'"
"Good God! is he going to sing again? I'm going away, then."
"No, Phœbus, don't be alarmed, I won't sing any more—not to please you, but because I want to talk with Adhémar and Lucien.—Ah! Adhémar—there's a friend that is a friend; you can always find him when you want him. But Dubotté! his scent tells him when anyone's going to ask a favor of him, and he runs away like a stag. I said, like a stag; the simile is a littlerisquéeperhaps, as our friend is married; but, never mind! I have said it, and I won't take it back."
"Oh! I'm not offended, Dodichet. When a man has a wife like mine, he is above such jests."
"You're content with your wife, eh? so much the better, I'm glad of it.—But I say, messieurs, is that all you're going to take? For my part, the weather makes me thirsty."
"Very well! order some beer."
"Beer! oh, no! that's too vulgar; punch, rather."
"Who ever heard of drinking punch just before dinner?"
"Why not? all hours are alike to good fellows!—Punch, waiter! rum punch—and see that it's good; say it's for a connoisseur.—Won't you have a glass of punch, too, my dear Lucien? it warms you up and makes you lively!"
"No, thanks; I won't take anything; I don't need anything."
"Oh! yes, you do; pardieu! you'll take some punch with us; just remember that it is I who invite you!"
"But I'll answer for it that it won't be he who will pay," said Adhémar, in an undertone.
However, when the punch was brought, they all concluded to partake. Dodichet immediately poured out a second glass for himself, humming:
"'J'en veux goûter encore, pour en être certain.'"
But Adhémar silenced him by saying:
"Messieurs, we four, born at Troyes——"
"The home of hashed veal," said Dodichet.
"Oh! Dodichet, you are not going to keep interrupting Adhémar, are you?"
"Not I; I simply desired to confirm his statement that we were all born at Troyes.—Go on, Adhémar."
"Five years ago, we four happened to meet in this same café. I was then twenty-four years old, and I had been in Paris for some time; but Philémon Dubotté and Lucien had just arrived, and Dodichet had run through the inheritance of only one of his uncles. We were old schoolfellows. Do you know what we said when we met here?"
"Perfectly. Each one of us declared: 'I intend to succeed; to make a name and station for myself; and I ask only five years to do it in.'"
"Exactly; and we agreed then to meet again here at the end of five years, in order to find out whether we had succeeded and had reached our respective goals."
"Very good."
"Now, let each of us in turn tell where he stands, and whether he has arrived at the goal which he had in view.—Begin, Philémon."
"Oh, yes! it's Dubotté's place to begin, because he's the dean in years. Go on, fascinating blond."
"Dean in years! I'm not so sure of that."
"Pshaw! between ourselves, there's no use in prevaricating; we all knew one another's ages at school."
"True; but we're not at school now."
"Ha! ha! that's good, that is; it ought to be framed. Dubotté, you are well over thirty-one."
"Not very much; only three months."
"That makes you thirty-one and a quarter."
"You're at least twenty-eight yourself, Dodichet."
"I don't conceal my age: I am twenty-seven and a half, Adhémar twenty-nine, and Lucien twenty-six; he's the youngest of the lot. So far, so good. I move that Phœbus proceed."
"All right.—Messieurs, I have no reason to complain of destiny. Having obtained a position in the Interior Department, where my assiduity, my zeal, and my fine handwriting procured me rapid promotion, I soon married; I found a very attractive young lady, who had a good-sized dowry; I was introduced to her; she liked me and declared that she would be happy to marry a man employed in the Interior Department. Our nuptials were celebrated. I have every reason to congratulate myself: my wife adores me, she sees only through my eyes. My emoluments are respectable; I am able to live pleasantly; so that I might fairly say that I have arrived, that my position is assured; but no, messieurs, I have not yet reached the height to which I aspire. For I am ambitious: I want to be a sub-prefect, or at least the head of a bureau; but I hope to arrive before long.Dixi."
"Heard and noted. Now it is Adhémar's turn."
"I will be brief, messieurs: I was determined to write; I wrote novels, I wrote for the stage; my plays have had more success than I dared hope; in that respect, fortune has constantly favored me, and I earn a good deal of money. But I have been less fortunate in love; I have loved women ardently; and when they told me that they loved me alone, I believed it until I had proof to the contrary; but I have had that proof so often that I am completely disillusioned. Thereupon I set about studying the sex; I discovered that all women are coquettes, and consequently that there is no dependence to be placed on their fidelity; that made me a misanthrope, or rather a misogynist, for some time; but then I said to myself that I must take the world as it is, and content myself with forming liaisons with women which have no other end than mere sensual pleasure. However, I am sure that I was born to love truly, and that it would have made me perfectly happy to be loved truly in return. That is where I stand: I have succeeded, so far as vanity and wealth are concerned, but I have not succeeded according to the longing of my heart; and, in my opinion, a man has not arrived when he is not happy."
"Very good!" cried Dodichet; "now it's my turn. I am very different from Adhémar, messieurs, in that I am very happy; for I pass my life enjoying myself. However, I must agree that I have not as yet a well-defined position; I have followed so many trades that you might call me an all-around man. I have had places, in the government service and elsewhere; but I have kept none of them—I don't know why; yes, I ought to say, I do know why. Impelled by my irresistible tendency to jest, I was forever trying to invent some amusing trick to play. When I was a clerk in a fancy goods shop, I succeededin mixing up all the different things, putting on one shelf what should have been put on another, so that, when customers came, nothing was ever in its place; my employers shouted and swore, and I roared with laughter. As clerk in one of the government bureaux, I had for chief a gentleman who never sat down except on one of those round leather cushions which facilitate respiration. One day, I abstracted that well-padded cushion, and substituted for it one that contained nothing but air; when my chief sank luxuriously into his easy-chair, the cushion burst and flattened out, with a very compromising explosion. This trifling peccadillo caused me to lose that place; there are people whose minds—I should say, whose behinds—are so ill-fashioned! I must confess that, during these various adventures, instead of earning money, I spent all my inheritances little by little. But I still have some wealthy kinsmen; I am going to reform; I have found my real vocation: the stage. Yes, messieurs; I am destined to shine some day on the stage. I have not yet reached that point, it is true; but you will see me there; and I propose that you come to this café, a year hence, to congratulate me on my talent and my triumphs."
"So be it," said Adhémar; "and now it is Lucien's turn to speak."
"I begin, messieurs, by telling you frankly that I have not succeeded at all; and yet I have not been enjoying myself—I have worked, worked hard, I have tried several branches of business in a small way, but I have not been successful; often, too, I have been deceived,worked, as they say, by persons who were supposed to be my partners, but who pocketed all the profits. But still I have not lost courage; I have just invented a new kind of pin for ladies' use; something tells me that it will be popular.I must tell you, too, that I am in love, and that the father of the woman I love will not give his daughter to any man who is not well settled in life."
"What's that! you are in love, my poor Lucien, really in love?" said Adhémar. "Ah! that is what prevents you from succeeding! I pray you, do not take that sentiment seriously, or you will be its victim in the end; it will make you sad and unhappy, and then you will be laughed at."
"I beg your pardon, Adhémar; but I don't agree with you. On the contrary, my love, far from making me unhappy, is my only comfort, my only hope; it supports me in adversity; for the woman I love loves me, and a word, a smile, from her makes me forget a whole week of gloom."
"The rascal is loved, you see," said Philémon; "he has won the girl's heart to her father's beard; I know what that is, myself!"
"Shall I kidnap your charmer for you, Lucien? shall I think up some trick to play on her daddy? Don't distress yourself—I am on hand!"
"No, Dodichet, I thank you; she is not one of the kind who allow themselves to be kidnapped. She is virtuous and well brought up. She will never give herself to anyone but her husband; and if she were different, I should not love her."
"Very good. But who is this barbarous father who refuses to approve his daughter's choice?"
"Oh! he is a miser, a curmudgeon, a man who has no regard for anything but money. You will understand, from that, that he will not give his daughter any dowry; on the contrary, he would be more likely to demand one from his son-in-law."
"What does the old skinflint do?"
"Nothing, so he says; but, between ourselves, I think that he lends money at usurious rates. He is rich, but he is always complaining of the hard times; unluckily for him, he married a second time—a woman much younger than himself, who is supposed to have brought him some money; he wouldn't have married her otherwise. But she likes to enjoy herself, to receive company now and then; and that drives Monsieur Mirotaine to despair, for he wants to avoid any expense that can possibly be avoided."
"Mirotaine, did you say, Lucien? Why, I know him; Mirotaine, formerly a bailiff, who lives now on Rue Saint-Louis, in the Marais?"
"That's the very man. So you know him, do you, Philémon? Well, is my portrait of him overdrawn?"
"No, indeed, not at all; he's an old hunks of the first order. He asked me to come to his evenings, but I learned that for refreshments, in summer, he gave cocoa."
"Delightful! And in winter?"
"In winter, it's much worse—hot cocoa. As you can imagine, that didn't attract me; so I have never been."
"Cold cocoa and hot cocoa!" cried Dodichet; "it's hard to believe that. Does the fellow deal in licorice root?"
"It's a pity, for his second wife isn't half bad; I would willingly have flirted a little with her; but I didn't feel that I had the courage to defy the cocoa!"
"And his daughter Juliette—isn't she charming?"
"I don't know her; I have never seen her."
"Her stepmother is determined to marry her. As she is a good deal of a flirt, I think that she's jealous of her stepdaughter's beauty; she is looking everywhere for a husband for her; I heard that she had gone so far as toapply to a second-hand clothes woman, who arranges marriages."
"I say! I say! What's that! Do second-hand clothes women make matches?"
"A great many, my dear Dodichet, a great many! The business pays well, as you can imagine; they stipulate that they are to furnish the presents that the groom always gives the bride. If the groom has no money to pay for them, they offer to advance it, being certain of getting their pay out of the bride's dowry."
"Do you know, that's a shrewd game! I have a mind to go into the matchmaking business myself. Do you know the name of this hymeneal procuress?"
"Madame Putiphar."
"The devil! the name is promising. I must see her and tell her to find me a millionairess, and I'll share the dowry with her.—All the same, he's a miserable old crow, is your Monsieur Miroton[P]—Mirotaine. He must smell of onions. I really must play some good practical joke on him."
"I beg you, Dodichet, do nothing of the sort; you would simply get Juliette into trouble, and that wouldn't help my business any."
"Your business! Do you really flatter yourself, Lucien, that your pins will enable you to marry the young woman?"
"If I make money, yes; but it will take a long time, and meanwhile Madame Putiphar will find some man who, fascinated by Juliette's attractions, will agree to marry her without a dowry."
"Poor Lucien! Give me your address; I'll come and see your pins, and try to give them a puff."
"I live very modestly, on the sixth floor, on Quai Jemmapes, facing the bridge, at the corner of Faubourg du Temple."
"Well, messieurs, I see that we are about to part without being able to say, any one of us, that we have reached the goal for which we set out."
"I ask a reprieve for one year, messieurs. In a year, I shall have made a name for myself on the stage. I shall have succeeded——"
"And I," said Lucien, "may have been successful in my new undertaking; in a year's time, perhaps, I shall have started a little business of my own."
"I shall be chief of a bureau or sub-prefect."
"Very good, messieurs," said Adhémar; "the reprieve for a year is granted; as for myself, I don't imagine that it will change my position at all."
Philémon Dubotté rose and left the table, saying:
"You are very pleasant companions, messieurs; but my wife expects me to dinner, and if I should be late again I should find her weeping in her soup. Au revoir, and may destiny be propitious to you!"
And the handsome blond departed.
"He goes off without paying," said Dodichet; "our friend doesn't stand on ceremony."
"He probably forgot it," said Lucien; "but we three will pay."
"Sapristi! I find that I forgot to bring my purse!" said Dodichet, feeling in his pockets.
Adhémar smiled and made haste to pay the waiter, saying:
"Allow me to be your host, messieurs; it will give me great pleasure. I believe you know my address, my dear Lucien; do come to see me sometimes."
"Thanks, my dear Adhémar; I shall not forget your invitation.—Adieu, Dodichet!"
Lucien Grischard also took his leave.
"He is proud," said Adhémar, as he and Dodichet left the café together. "He doesn't come to see me, because he is poor and doesn't choose that anyone shall help him."
"Well, then, he's wrong. I am not like that, thank you," rejoined Dodichet; "a man shouldn't be proud with his friends. And so, Adhémar, d'ye see, I don't hesitate to say to you: I have left my purse at home; pray lend me a hundred sous. I will pay you the next time I see you."
"My dear Dodichet, I like above all things to oblige my friends, but you abuse your privilege. I have lent you many hundred-sou pieces, which you are always going to repay—but you never do."
"Very good! listen: lend me ten francs, and I'll pay back a hundred sous right away."
Adhémar could not help laughing, and, on the strength of the jest, lent Dodichet a hundred sous.
Let us leave Philémon Dubotté to return to his wife, casting languishing glances at all the passably pretty women he meets on his way; let us leave Lucien Grischard to muse upon possible methods of earning money without departing from the pathway of honor; and Fanfan Dodichet to cudgel his brains to invent a practical joke to play on Monsieur Mirotaine, who regaled his company with cocoa; and let us follow Adhémar, who had no schemes in his head except that of a comedy of which he was just planning the dénouement.
Our author followed the boulevard; he walked rather slowly, paying no attention to the passers-by; but suddenly he stopped short, or rather turned and flew toward a lady a few yards away, whose dress had taken fire as she walked over a burning match which one of those gentlemen who have the noble habit of smoking while they walk had thrown away, after lighting his cigar or his pipe, without even taking the trouble to step on it and extinguish it. If our friends would do so much, they would at least relieve women from the risk of such dangerous accidents; but what does a smoker care if a dress does burn, and its wearer too? He has his smoke, and the rest is all right. In very truth, we have good reason to exclaim:O tempora! O mores!
The lady's dress was of some thin material; the flame rose quickly to her waist, and she had not discovered that she was on fire; but when she was suddenly consciousof being seized by two strong arms, which arrested and stifled the flames at the risk of burning themselves, the lady uttered a shriek, and demanded of the man in whose embrace she was by what right he presumed to take her in his arms. Adhémar replied by pointing to her dress, one side of which was badly burned.
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I understand now," she exclaimed. "Pray forgive me! Was I really on fire?"
"Yes, madame; you must have walked over a lighted match; I happened, luckily, to be within a few steps; and although I do not always see what is taking place beside me, I did see the flame just as it was beginning to make rather rapid progress; and I hastened to your assistance without stopping to ask your permission; I thought that you would not take it ill of me."
"Ah! monsieur, I am so grateful to you! But you have burned yourself!"
"Only a little, on the left hand. It's a mere trifle."
Meanwhile, the idlers and other inquisitive folk, who always come up when the danger is over, began to collect around the lady and Adhémar.
"What is it?"
"What has happened?"
"A lady burned——"
"Throw water on her!"
"It's all out. Her dress is baked a little, that's all."
"She can buy another."
"What about the gentleman who is so close to her?"
"It was probably he who burned her—with his cigar."
"Then he ought to be arrested and taken to the police station."
"Why, no; he's the one who extinguished the lady; and got a pretty burn on his left wrist into the bargain."
"The deuce! if he plays the fiddle, that will bother him."
The hero and heroine of the adventure hastened to force their way through the crowd and to go into a pharmacy, which, luckily, was only a few steps away.
The lady sat down, and asked for a glass of orange water, to restore her strength after the shock she had received. Adhémar showed the druggist his burned wrist, which was first bathed in cold water, then covered with something guaranteed to heal the burn in a short time. But he had to submit to have his arm bandaged and to carry it in a sling for a while, for the wound was of considerable size.
While all this was being done, our two friends had time to look at each other, and—which was natural enough—tried to make out each other's individuality. The person who had nearly been burned to death was about twenty-five years of age, tall and slender and well built; her face, which usually wore a grave expression, became very attractive when she smiled; her black eyes were beautiful and very expressive, and the eyebrows which surmounted them were thin, but perfectly arched. Her hair was black, her Niobe-like nose but slightly prominent. Taken all in all, she was a very comely person; she was stylishly dressed, and her manners denoted high social position.
Adhémar discovered all this while his arm was being dressed. On her side, the lady had scrutinized the man who had rendered her such a signal service, and we know that the scrutiny could not be unfavorable to him.
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I am terribly distressed. You are really badly burned," she said, while Adhémar's wrist was being bandaged.
"Oh! no, madame; it will very soon be all right."
"Yes," said the druggist, "very soon; but you will probably carry the mark of this burn to your dying day."
"Well, it will be an honorable scar!—Pray consider, madame, that you might have been seriously burned; what does this amount to, compared with the danger by which you were threatened?"
She made no direct reply, but looked down at her dress and cried:
"It is impossible for me to go out in this condition; the whole skirt of my dress is burned. Is there no way of getting a cab?"
"Surely, madame," the druggist replied; "I will send for one for you."
"I shall be greatly obliged to you, monsieur."
Adhémar, the bandaging being completed, seemed to hesitate as to what he should do; but at last he bowed, and said to his companion:
"As you have no further need of my services, madame, I will take my leave of you."
The lady blushed slightly, but she detained Adhémar, saying with some hesitation:
"Excuse me, monsieur, for keeping you longer; but I should be very glad to know the name of the gentleman who risked his—who was badly burned in my service?—Mon Dieu! I am too presumptuous—I beg your pardon."
"There is nothing presumptuous in your request, madame; on the contrary, it is most flattering to me."
And, as he spoke, Adhémar took his card from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, looked at it eagerly, and her face assumed an expression of satisfaction.
"I know you already by name and reputation," she said, looking up at Adhémar with a smile; "I have hadthe pleasure of seeing most of your plays, and I congratulate myself upon this opportunity of telling the author how many pleasant moments I owe to his talent."
Adhémar could not control a feeling of pride, which showed itself on his face. What dramatic author, poet, or novelist would be entirely insensible to such praise, especially when it is uttered with a charming smile by an intelligent mouth? From the mouth of a fool a compliment sometimes has a foolish sound, and sometimes produces an absurd effect.
"I am very fortunate, madame," Adhémar replied, "if my works have afforded you any diversion; your praise almost makes me vain of my success. Do you like the theatre, madame?"
"Very much, monsieur."
"And you go often?"
"Why, yes, as often as a woman can go who is all alone in the world and must always find some friend who is willing to go with her; for a lady cannot go to the theatre alone; it is neither amusing nor proper."
"Ah! madame is—madame has no——"
"I am a widow, monsieur."
"That is what I meant to say, madame. Forgive me—I am the presumptuous one—but I should be very happy to know——"
"For whom you have risked your life and burned yourself, and whether the person was worth the trouble?"
"Oh! madame, pray believe that that is not what I was about to say. In the first place, it seems to me that every person who is in danger deserves to be assisted, whatever her appearance or her rank. But with you, madame, I could not be otherwise than flattered to havehad this adventure. I see that my question was indiscreet, and I withdraw it."
"And I, monsieur, on the contrary, am determined that you shall know whom you rescued so unselfishly; I like to believe that you will not regret your action."
"It is enough to see you and talk with you, madame, to form a most favorable opinion of you, and——"
"Oh! you know that it is not safe to trust to appearances, monsieur. They are very deceitful, especially in Paris. Take this—take it, I beg you!"
As she was speaking, she had taken from a dainty little reticule the card which she offered to Adhémar; he took it at last, and put it in his pocket without glancing at it.
The messenger returned and informed the lady that her carriage was waiting. She thanked him, and was about to go, after bowing to Adhémar, when he offered her his hand, saying:
"Will you not allow me to escort you to your carriage, madame?"
"With great pleasure, monsieur."
They went out of the druggist's shop together, the lady having passed her arm through her escort's, because the sight of a gentleman leading a lady by the hand, on the boulevard, in broad daylight, would have caused all the loiterers to stop and stare; less than that is enough to attract the attention and arouse the curiosity of the Parisian, who is excessively prone to loiter, and seizes on the wing every possible opportunity to kill time.