PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITHGEORGE BARRIE'S SONSTHE JEFFERSON PRESSBOSTON NEW YORK
Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons.
SANS-CRAVATE;OR,THE MESSENGERS[CONTINUED]
Several days had passed since Albert left Paris. His sudden departure had greatly surprised his friends and boon companions, and, as they did not know the cause of it, each of them formed his own conjectures.
"He probably thought that there wasn't enough sport in Paris," said Mouillot, "and has gone elsewhere in search of adventures."
"I have no doubt that he is following some woman who has magnetized him," observed Monsieur Dupétrain; "someone who can make him go to the end of the world by the power of her magnetic fluid."
Balivan, distraught as always, exclaimed at first:
"What! Albert has left Paris? That's very strange! Can he have gone on a sketching trip?"—But on the next and following days, as he smoked his cigar on the boulevard, he never failed to say: "It's a surprising thing—I haven't met Albert to-day."
Monsieur Varinet, the young man with white eyebrows, and holder of Tobie's olive, said nothing at all.
There were two persons who might have informed these gentlemen as to the cause of Albert's departure: Tobie Pigeonnier, who had been his second in the duel, a fact of which he would have boasted everywhere had he notbeen forced anew to shun the society of his friends; for, being less prepared than ever to redeem his fetich, and to cut a figure in society, the little man had disappeared; no one ever saw him, by day or by night, so that it might well be believed that he was dead or had left Paris; and Monsieur Varinet was beginning to contemplate distrustfully the little, dried fruit which he still kept in his purse.
The second person was Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir; that gentleman, who had known of Albert's duel, was not long in learning of his departure from Paris. He was no sooner absolutely certain of that fact than he hastened to Madame Baldimer's to inform her.
That lady, whose features had assumed a more serious expression than ever since her rupture with young Vermoncey, received Célestin rather coldly; when she had listened to what he had come to tell her, as to something which she already knew, she replied shortly:
"Your intimate friend has left Paris without you! It seems to me that he has treated us about alike; our discredit is complete. The result is, monsieur, that I fancy that you are not likely to know much more than I about his affairs hereafter, so that you will not be called upon to put yourself out to please me."
Célestin tried to assume a sentimental air, as he replied:
"Hereafter, madame, I shall not come to talk about Albert, but about myself and my love for you. I have broken entirely with my friend, for Albert, having found me with you, is too jealous to forgive me. I care very little, however, for his hatred or his indifference, since you have promised to reward me."
Madame Baldimer rose and bowed low to her visitor.
"I will keep my promise, monsieur, as you will see very soon."
And the next day, Célestin received a parcel carefully wrapped in paper, and a short note, in Madame Baldimer's hand, containing these words only:
"I promised to pay you for what you did for me, and I keep my promise, monsieur. Deign to accept the contents of this parcel; it is your compensation."
"I promised to pay you for what you did for me, and I keep my promise, monsieur. Deign to accept the contents of this parcel; it is your compensation."
Célestin hastily tore off the wrapper, and found the magnificent shawl that Albert had presented to the fair American, and the costly opera glass given her by Count Dahlborne. Thus she rewarded Célestin by sending him the gifts she had received from her other two adorers.
At first, he gnawed his lips in anger, muttering:
"What does she take me for? I consider her damnably impertinent. The idea of offering to pay me! It won't take me long to send back her parcel."
But, after examining the two objects, Célestin thought better of it and sent neither of them back.
"They will help me to seduce some other woman," he said to himself.
Madame Baldimer had estimated him at his exact value.
Paul had resumed his occupation; as before, he arrived at his stand very early in the morning; but Elina, too, came to her work at the dressmaker's before any of her fellow apprentices had left their beds—in spite of which fact, she was sometimes the last to appear in the workroom; for every morning she slackened her pace when she saw the young messenger, who ran quickly to meet her. It rarely happens that there is not some doorway, some passage, some porte cochère, which offers shelter to those who wish to talk, and who are very glad not to stand where they are exposed to the eyes of everybodywho passes. Lovers especially seek sheltered nooks and dark corners; when they are walking together on the street, you will see them look out of the corners of their eyes, to right and left, hoping to espy some obscure passageway, and agreeing that it is a great pity that all the new houses have porte cochères. And as soon as they discover the most uninviting nook, they hasten thither to talk a moment. That moment sometimes lasts for hours. Oftentimes a concierge, disgusted that any one should talk unless they talk to her, calls out impertinently from the end of the passage:
"Aren't you most through chattering there? Well! those people are making themselves at home! They make assignations in my passageway! They keep other folks out, but what do they care! If I didn't keep an eye on 'em, God knows what they'd be up to on my premises! God! what a place this world is getting to be!"
Another one will say nothing, but begin to sweep pools of water against the legs of the couple who have stopped in her doorway. Or else she will close the door of the passage, saying:
"Who do you want to see? You can't stand there, I tell you!"
But all these petty annoyances slide lightly over the good nature of a pair of lovers. If they are obliged to go away, they stop again a little farther on; or they defy the sweeping, the unkind remarks, the silly jests, and the inquisitive glances of the gossips of the quarter, who, in most cases, act as auxiliaries to the concierges. What do they care what is said, or what happens about them? oftentimes they don't see it. It is so pleasant to love and to tell each other of it, to gaze into the loved one's eyes, to talk in whispers, to understand each other atthe slightest hint, to exchange ardent thoughts and warm breaths. When we are enjoying such bliss as that, it engrosses us and leaves us no senses with which to be conscious of anything else. She was quite right, was that lady of the good old time, who, when her knight sought a shelter from the rain, cried:
"You no longer love me! if you did, you would not have noticed that it rains!"
Elina told Paul all that she did, all that she thought, all the plans she formed during the day and sometimes during the night; for one does not always sleep at night, especially if one is very much in love.
The young messenger received these sweet confidences with the deepest interest, for he was always included in Elina's projects. The little dressmaker had not a thought or hope which did not relate to Paul; and she told her lover so with an artless sincerity which enchanted him. But, for all that, he was often very depressed, and that grieved the young girl, who said to him one morning:
"Aren't you glad that I tell you all my thoughts? don't you approve of my plans for the future? Instead of being gratified that I think of you all the time, it seems to sadden you and make you unhappy; if that's how it is, monsieur, I won't tell you anything more!"
"Oh! do not think that, mademoiselle," Paul replied, as he took Elina's hand. "I listen to you with the greatest pleasure; I am too happy to hear what you say, to know that I am always in your thoughts. But, do what I will—I think——"
"What, pray?"
"That all these plans are not certain to be carried out. For, before I can marry you, before I can have the happiness of calling you my wife, I must have money inhand. Your aunt, Madame Vardeine, will never consent to give you to a poor messenger; and she will be in the right. Oh! yes, parents are always right. You are fitted to marry a rich man, with an established position—a man whose honorable calling will not expose you to the risk of having to blush for your husband. Not that I despise my trade! far from it; but the world has its customs, its exigencies, its laws, which we are bound to respect. The man who stands at the street corner, to do errands, cannot hope to be received in the salon of the humblest bourgeois. And you, Elina, with your charms, your intelligence, your beauty, are capable of conferring happiness on a man who will be able to take you into society, who will have an attractive position and a name to offer you. Whereas I lack everything. Ah! you see that I do wrong to love you! and that I am justified in being depressed!"
While her young friend was saying this, little Elina showed, by repeated impatient gestures, how far she was from sharing his ideas. At last, barely giving him time to finish, she cried:
"Hush! hush this minute! for what you are saying is very wicked. So you would have me cease to love you, because you are a messenger! But I insist upon loving you, monsieur, and I will love you whether you want me to or not. Besides, what you say isn't fair to yourself. Are you like other messengers? do you swear every time you speak? are you coarse and vulgar, and rude in your manners? No, you are just the opposite; you are perfectly well fitted to go into a salon; indeed, you would not be out of place; all you would have to do would be to change your jacket for a coat; and is that so hard to do?"
"No; but the coat isn't enough."
"I beg your pardon, monsieur—a coat and education. But are you obliged to remain a messenger forever? When we are married, you can go into something else; you will have saved something, for you can't spend very much money, you live so modestly; you never go to the wine shop. I have heard your comrades say more than once: 'He must be saving money; he works hard, and never enjoys himself.'"
Paul looked at the ground as he replied:
"Alas! no, mademoiselle; I haven't saved anything; I have no money."
"Why, what do you do with your money, then?" cried Elina. "You can't give it to your parents, as you haven't any."
Paul blushed, and stammered:
"I haven't been able to save anything, mademoiselle; it isn't my fault."
Elina feared that she had wounded him, and made haste to say:
"Oh! pray forgive me for saying that. Mon Dieu! perhaps you will think that I care for money! I care nothing at all about it, I tell you; don't grieve, Monsieur Paul; we shall have enough, anyway. I am rich, you know; I have what my father left me, and when I am of age my aunt will have to give it to me. Then it will be yours, and with that we shall have enough to start a nice little business. Come, monsieur, don't be cast down any more, when I tell you that we shall be very happy some day."
Paul sighed as he kissed Elina's hand; but soon the smile reappeared on his lips and love in his eyes; how could he complain when he saw how dearly she loved him?
Such was generally the end of these interviews on a street corner, under a porte cochère, or at the entrance of a passage.
Such loving words as these are not always exchanged behind the gorgeous hangings of a salon.
I do not say this to induce you to make love on street corners; but solely to show you that it is done everywhere. The poor must have some compensation.
After these affectionate conversations with the little dressmaker, Paul returned to his place lighter-hearted and more content with his lot. Then he would look about for Sans-Cravate, with whom he was most desirous to be reconciled, because he had, in the depths of his heart, a feeling of affection for him, which he could not overcome. Genuine affection is not readily destroyed, and, when you have a sympathetic feeling for a person, it is like the natural instincts: drive it away if you will, it returns at a gallop.
But Sans-Cravate was almost never in his place; as soon as he had earned a few sous, Jean Ficelle enticed him away to spend them.
One morning, when Albert had been away from Paris for some time, a gentleman stopped in front of Paul, who was sitting on hiscrochets, and said to him:
"I was looking for you, my friend; I have something for you to do. Do you recognize me?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur," Paul replied quickly, and with evident emotion; "you are Monsieur Albert's father; I should be very blameworthy if I had forgotten you—you were so kind to me!"
"I was no more than just," Monsieur Vermoncey rejoined, with a smile. "Come with me, if you will; I have several errands for you to do."
Paul followed Monsieur Vermoncey, who took him up to his apartment and gave him several letters to deliver, to which he was to bring back answers—some verbal, others written. The young man set off at once; he performed the commissions intrusted to him promptly and with marked zeal; as most of those to whom he was sent gave him no written answers, he had to remember exactly what each of them said to him. But he had an excellent memory, and he transmitted the messages faithfully to Monsieur Vermoncey.
Albert's father was surprised at the remarkable celerity with which Paul had made the journey to several places at a distance from his house, and greatly pleased by the way in which he had carried out his wishes. He paid him generously, saying:
"You have done well, my friend, very well! but another time you need not hurry so; barely an hour and a quarter to go to all four corners of Paris! I call that going like the wind, not walking! I don't want you to make yourself ill in my service."
"Oh! you need have no fear, monsieur; it is a pleasure to me to show you my zeal."
Monsieur Vermoncey seemed surprised by the young messenger's language. He looked earnestly at him for several seconds, then dismissed him, saying:
"Until another time! but only on condition that you won't go so fast."
A week later, Monsieur Vermoncey's servant came after Paul, who went with him at once. The young man was ushered into his patron's apartment, and the servant left him in the library, saying that he would tell his master that he was there.
In a few moments he returned, and said:
"Monsieur has not finished the letter he was writing, and now he has a visitor; he told me to ask you to wait a little while, if you can."
"Yes, yes; so long as monsieur wishes," Paul replied.
"Stay here, then; it's pleasanter, and nobody goes through this room."
Left alone, Paul sat down and glanced timidly about. Against all four walls were shelves filled with books, which were protected from the dust by sliding glass doors; but several of the doors were open, and the books were at the service of those who cared for them.
The young man gazed for some time, with something like envy, at those treasures of wit and learning gathered in so small a space; he read the names of Voltaire, Rousseau, Corneille, Molière, Montaigne, La Fontaine, and said to himself:
"Mon Dieu! how fortunate anybody is to own all these books! to be in such good company! for an author's mind is himself, his works are his thoughts, and when reading him one can imagine that he is listening to him; that it is he who is speaking. What a blessed thing is genius! it does not die! A man can never have a moment's ennui when he is in the company of those men!"
Paul heaved a sigh, and, thinking that he might have a long while to wait in the library, concluded that he would do no harm by opening one of the books which were before him; so he put out his hand and took the volume that was nearest him. It was La Rochefoucauld'sMaximes; he resumed his seat, and began to read it with avidity.
He had been in the library quite a long while, but he was still reading, and the time passed very quickly. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning hishead, saw Monsieur Vermoncey, who said to him with a smile:
"Ah! I have caught you."
The young man blushed, and hastily rose to his feet.
"Pray forgive me, monsieur," he faltered, "for presuming to take down one of those books; but I had to wait—and I thought that—that——"
"There is no occasion to apologize, my friend; you have done no wrong. On the contrary, it is greatly to your credit that you are fond of reading. What book have you there?"
"La Rochefoucauld'sMaximes."
"That is rather a serious work; what do you think of it?"
"What he says is very sad, and does not give one a very high opinion of men. But I'm afraid it is true."
Monsieur Vermoncey looked at Paul in amazement.
"Really, my friend," he said, "you are no common messenger; I have noticed already that you express yourself in much better language than most of those in your station, and now your opinion of this book proves that I was not mistaken; you have had a good education, have you not?"
"Yes, monsieur; an excellent man, who had no children, became interested in me and took me into his family when I was hardly ten years old. He was kind enough to send me to school; and I was so happy not to remain ignorant, that I made the most of the instruction that was given me."
"How does it happen that your patron, having given you an education, allowed you to become a messenger? He should have completed his work and found you a place."
"Ah! monsieur, it was not that excellent man's fault. He took me into his own office as clerk; but at his death I lost everything, place and patron. It was then that I became a messenger; it was necessary for me to earn money."
"To assist your parents, I suppose?"
Paul lowered his eyes, and murmured very low:
"Yes, monsieur; it was for them."
"I understand you now!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey; "you are a good son; you sacrificed your hopes, your future, to what you considered the duty of making yourself useful at once to those who gave you life. Poor fellow! your conduct is very noble. But you must leave a trade which is not for such as you. Yes; I will undertake to find you an honorable and lucrative position."
"Oh! monsieur—such kindness!"
"Why, it is not more than justice. Anyone can see that you ought not to be a messenger. Do you know how to write?"
"Yes, monsieur; my handwriting is not very bad; I know how to figure also."
"Very good. I will find a place for you, never fear. I can't promise that it will be very soon, for here in Paris there are so many applicants for even the smallest places, that there are very few vacancies; but I promise you that—yes, within three months you will have changed your position in life."
"Mon Dieu! what have I done to deserve that you should take so much interest in me?"
"In the first place, all that you did the first time I ever saw you, to help me to find my son; and, secondly, you attracted me at once; I felt that you were a worthyyoung man. Rely on me hereafter; I propose to replace the protector you have lost."
"Ah! monsieur."
Obeying an irresistible impulse, Paul seized Monsieur Vermoncey's hand and put it to his lips, then let it fall, and drew back, as if he feared that he had offended him; but Albert's father, deeply touched, took the young man's hand and pressed it warmly.
"Come, come, be of good heart, my friend; you will make your way. But, pending your change of occupation, will you do another errand for me—take this letter and this casket to one of my friends?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur; whatever you choose; I am at your service, and shall always be; even if my position should change, my devotion to you would remain the same. You will see that my heart is not ungrateful."
Paul took the letter and casket, and hastened away to deliver them at their destination. He acquitted himself of his commission with his accustomed zeal, and his new patron said, as he dismissed him:
"I shall not forget you, my friend; I shall begin at once to look after a place for you, for I shall not be content until I see you engaged in some employment worthy of your education and manners."
Paul thanked Monsieur Vermoncey again, and took leave of him, mentally returning thanks to heaven for giving him a new protector. He began now to believe that Elina's delightful plans might be carried out, and that the dreams of happiness of which she so often told him might some day come to pass.
It was eleven o'clock in the forenoon; Sans-Cravate, who had done a good day's work the day before, carrying billets-doux for several young men of fashion, who are always generous when they are in good humor, had gone off to walk as usual with Jean Ficelle, who led him toward Pont d'Austerlitz, to the place where games of chance were usually in operation.
As they walked along, the two friends, who had already refreshed themselves several times, talked with much animation; and the amusing part of it was that while one of them talked on one subject, the other talked on another, and neither of them listened or answered; which did not prevent them from going on.
"Yes!" said Sans-Cravate; "I don't think any more of her than if I'd never known her. Damme! if anybody should ask me now what color Bastringuette's eyes are, I should be hard put to it to answer. I don't remember."
"And you see," said Jean Ficelle, "there is people who say that you never win at cards. But that's all nonsense! and the proof is that I might have made my fortune if I hadn't been a coward."
"But to say that she wasn't pretty, that there wasn't something alluring about her—I should lie, if I denied it. But all women have that. Parbleu! you only have to be in love to find it out."
"Look you, I'll give you a comparison: You haven't got any money, and you stake what you have—then you win! But if you have anything, you're afraid of losing it; so you won't risk it, and you miss the chance of making a fortune."
"And that fellow who's always looking at me, and acts as if he wanted to speak to me. Oh! just let him come—I'll give him a warm reception! It ain't that I've seen him with Bastringuette. No, I'll have to admit that; since that day on Rue Barbette, when we met Paul dressed like a swell, and Bastringuette a little farther on—I've never seen him with her, and they do well to keep out of sight! For if they should act as if they meant to laugh at me—why, by heaven! it would go hard with 'em!"
"And then, you see, there's some who are mighty smart—they always win. I know one fellow—and he's a great swell—who makes six francs a day withbiribi;that's a trade that would suit me down to the ground!"
Suddenly Jean Ficelle put his hand on his comrade's arm and stopped him, saying:
"Look, they're already at it, the rascals! They go to work early, they're no sluggards!"
The messengers had reached the river bank, near a game oftable-basse, run by a tall fellow whose tongue was never at rest; he bewildered his audience by his incessant chatter.
A number of men of somewhat forbidding aspect were gathered about the game. But as two countrymen approached, the spectators made room for them; and the sharper offered them a dicebox with some little balls, crying:
"Come, messieurs, try your luck! every throw wins something, and it's only twenty sous a throw; and fortwenty sous, if you choose, you can win a magnificent silver repeating watch, or a cover of the same metal, which you can have the pleasure of presenting to your good wife; or a thimble,—also of the same metal,—with which you can do homage to your venerable mother, if you are fortunate enough to possess her still."
The peasants could not resist the temptation; one of them took the dicebox and threw the balls, and Jean-Pierre counted. (Jean-Pierreis the sobriquet by which these charlatans call one another.) He counted with amazing facility and dexterity; his addition always seemed perfectly fair, but no one ever won prizes worth more than two or three sous.
"Come, messieurs, keep on, try your luck again," cried Jean-Pierre; "that throw turned out well for Jean-Pierre, but the luck will change; you'll win the big prizes, messieurs! and Jean-Pierre will be in the hole. But he will always be only too happy to fulfil his engagements with the honorable company."
The peasant, who had won only a box of matches for his twenty sous, threw again, in the hope of having better luck, and the product of the sale of his cabbages, beans, and strawberries soon passed into Jean-Pierre's pockets.
While the bumpkin stood rooted to the spot, dazed by the loss of his money, a mechanic approached the table, and, after looking on for some time, observed:
"I likebiribibetter."
"Here you are, monsieur! here's thebiribiyou're looking for!" cried the sharper, producing three cards from an apron which he wore, and in which was an enormous pocket whose gaping mouth seemed ready to engulf all the silver and loose change of the assembled company.
While the sharper arranged hisbiribitable, and made his three cards fly about with remarkable dexterity, another mechanic, who had followed his comrade, said to him:
"Come away, Benoît; don't bet! Those games are a fraud, you know that everyone always loses."
"What's that, monsieur, you say that everyone always loses with me?" cried the croupier, having first cleared his throat in order to speak more volubly. "Why, in that case, you can't have been present at all the throws I lost just now. Ask the honorable company here present if I haven't paid out more than a hundred francs within half an hour—yes, monsieur, a hundred francs! And I don't put it too high, and I don't count a silver watch that that gentleman over yonder won from me—the one with the handsome whiskers; and ear-rings—of pure gold, hall-marked, that I redeemed for twelve francs from that short young man who looks so happy, and who means to give the money to his virtuous mother, who has longed for a cup of chocolate for sixty years!—Isn't this so, my little man?—You see, he shows you his twelve francs and presses them to his heart. Oh, no! no one ever wins with me, messieurs! But, I tell you, this game is absolutely free from trickery; it is simply for you to guess where the card calledbiribiis. It isn't my fault when you guess wrong. The sums I have already lost are enormous! But if I should tell you that I always lose, I should lie; no, messieurs, I don't always lose; but you have an even chance, if you have a sharp eye, if you pick it out of three cards—that's very few—three—only three cards; if you pick outbiribi, why, Jean-Pierre is certainly in the hole. Come, messieurs, make your bets! I pay cash, my pockets are well lined! there's plenty of thequibus!it rests with you whether it passes from my pockets into yours."
The gambler concluded his discourse by slapping the pocket which contained his money; and the workingman, bewildered by that torrent of words poured forth without pausing to take breath, made up his mind to try his luck; he followed with his eyes the three cards which Jean-Pierre moved about on the table, from right to left and left to right, with a rapidity which made the eyes ache; then, believing that he was sure of his card, he placed upon it all the money he had received for his week's wages, which was all that his family had to live upon.
"Will you take all that at once?" he cried excitedly.
"Why not, monsieur? Jean-Pierre never weakens; he takes whatever you choose—your clothes or your handkerchiefs, if you haven't any money! Jean-Pierre will do anything to please you."
"Let her go, then; that one'sbiribi! Turn it over."
The gambler turned the card—the workman had lost; he was crestfallen and speechless with dismay, and the peasant, who also had been stripped, laughed stupidly and said:
"He ain't any smarter than I am, he ain't."
Meanwhile, spurred on by Jean Ficelle, who claimed to be certain that he could tell him how to win, Sans-Cravate was about to give way to the temptation to try his hand atbiribi, when a confederate ran up; he had sighted a police officer on the horizon. In an instant, the games were folded up and carried off by the Jean-Pierres, who ran as fast as their legs would carry them; while their dupes remained behind, feeling in their empty pockets, and trying to decide—one of them, whether he should return to his village without the proceeds of thesale of his produce; the other, whether he dared face his children, who would ask him for money with which to buy bread.
Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle walked away.
"We arrived too late," said the latter; "it's too bad! I have an idea that we would have broken the bank, and then what a spree we'd have had! we wouldn't have worked for a week!"
"For my part, I am glad I didn't play," said Sans-Cravate; "the money goes too fast that way; and then, too, gambling's a miserable business!"
"Oh!ouiche!as if a man mustn't have some fun out of life! weren't we born to enjoy ourselves? Only sneaks, like Paul, talk that way. For my part, I claim that gambling's the spice of life; look you, I'll give you a comparison——"
"Pshaw! there's a wine shop yonder; I like that better than yourbiribi."
As the two friends were about to enter the wine shop, a man behind them hailed them:
"So you're too proud to speak to a friend, eh?"
They both turned, and Jean Ficelle uttered a joyful exclamation.
"Why, it's Laboussole!" he said; "old Laboussole! Well, this is a surprise!"
It was, in fact, Monsieur Laboussole who stood before them; but his aspect was a little less shabby than formerly: he wore a frock-coat of chestnut-colored beaver, abnormally full, and so long that he almost walked on it; it was plain that the garment was not made for him, but that did not prevent him from carrying it with a swagger, and looking down at himself often with a complacent expression, as if admiring his coat. His hat was thesame one; but instead of the strip of bed ticking for a cravat, Monsieur Laboussole wore a black stock, which was not absolutely new, but nevertheless imparted to its wearer a sort of bellicose aspect. Add a pair of moustaches which were as yet in their infancy, and which persisted in growing black on one side and gray on the other, and you can form an idea of Laboussole as he accosted the two messengers.
"Well, well! is it really you, old fellow?" continued Jean Ficelle, wringing Laboussole's hand. "It's a long time since I saw you—almost three months and a half."
"Yes," said Sans-Cravate, who seemed less delighted than his comrade by the meeting; "not since the day we drank together on Rue Saint-Lazare, and monsieur was arrested."
"Oh, yes! to be sure—I remember," said Laboussole, good-humoredly. "You were present at the time of my arrest, weren't you? A blunder, my boys, an unlucky blunder, and nothing else! They mistook me for another man; and after keeping me in prison two months, they let me go in a hurry. They went so far as to make apologies—which I accepted—but it was almighty unpleasant, all the same. I was tempted to go to law, to make a claim for damages and interest; but everybody said to me: 'We've never had a doubt of your innocence; society has always done you justice, and that ought to satisfy you.'"
"Pardi!I never believed you were guilty, and I've said so more than once to Sans-Cravate.—Ain't that so, Sans-Cravate? haven't I told you they did wrong to arrest Laboussole, because he was as white as my shirt?"
Sans-Cravate nodded his head; whereupon Laboussole seized his hand and shook it, saying:
"Your good opinion is very pleasant to me, my boys. Yes, I am quite as white as Jean Ficelle's shirt—perhaps a little whiter, even;—but I believe you were going into the wine shop; don't let me keep you."
"On the contrary, you're coming in to have a drink with us. Who ever heard of friends meeting without wetting their whistles?"
"With pleasure, my friends; let's go in; I was just thinking that I felt the need of moistening my lips."
The three men entered the wine shop. Jean Ficelle asked for a small private room, and they were shown into one where there were two tables, both unoccupied. Wine was brought, and the glasses were filled and emptied several times. Monsieur Laboussole seemed overjoyed to have met the two messengers; Jean Ficelle manifested equal satisfaction; and Sans-Cravate himself, after drinking three or four glasses of wine, became very good-humored.
"I say, old fellow," said Jean Ficelle, scrutinizing Laboussole, "seems to me, business must have been pretty good with you since we met. On my word, you're rigged out like a landholder of Ile Saint-Louis!Bigre!what style!"
"Yes," replied Laboussole, drawing himself up in his beaver coat. "I'm in a very pretty line of business now. I have a position in an enterprise that is just being started; I have an idea that I'm going to make my fortune."
"The devil! there's nothing cheap about you!"
"What sort of a business is it?" asked Sans-Cravate.
"It's something new and ingenious, my friends; imagine, if you please, that a party of capitalists have conceived the idea of forming a company to insure against fleas and all insects that devour mankind; for, as youprobably know, mankind is being decimated by insects, and, if we don't look out, the world will come to an end that way. Now, then, the company has a capital stock of a million. With a million francs, you see, it would beat the devil if they couldn't wipe out all the fleas in Europe. It's a magnificent chance; the shares are going up, up at a frightful rate!"
"Oh! I say! that's a funny kind of insurance!"
"Messieurs, everything is insured nowadays: life, fortune, women—yes, messieurs, a company's being formed to guarantee the fidelity of your wives and mistresses! There won't be any more cuckolds, messieurs. Think what a vast enterprise! and what an age—that will have seen it! But they haven't succeeded yet in raising money enough to start the thing; they need a lot of money, so it seems. Speaking of mistresses, what's become of your sweetheart Bastringuette? I don't see her with you, my dear Sans-Cravate; has she got the smallpox?"
"Oh! I haven't seen anything of her for a long time," replied Sans-Cravate, with a frown; "nor thought of her, either."
"Oho! did she do—what I mentioned just now?"
"Apparently."
"Come, come! let's not talk about Bastringuette," cried Jean Ficelle. "You see, Laboussole, that it puts my comrade out of sorts."
"Oh! excuse me, my boys, excuse me! I was thoughtless; it was my friendship for you that misled me. Let's have a drink!"
"What's your position in the flea business, eh?"
"A very fine one—I am an inspector. We send clerks ahead to attend to destroying the insects; then I arrive at the house of the insured, I inspect the premises, I searcheverywhere; and after my visit, I defy you to find anything there at all."
"Are you required to have a moustache in your position, that you let yours grow?"
"It isn't absolutely required, but in all the best places moustaches are worn, and I felt that I owed that to myself. Your health, my bucks! To my pleasure at being in the bosom of my friends once more!"
Monsieur Laboussole's tone was becoming affectingly sentimental. They drank, and touched glasses; the bottles rapidly succeeded one another; their brains began to get heated, especially Sans-Cravate's, which took fire very easily. Ere long, Jean Ficelle called for a pack of cards.
"I'll play you a game of piquet, Laboussole," he cried; "piquet, the honest man's game—just for fun, to pass the time, and to see if you know how to play it."
"I play like an oyster," rejoined Laboussole; "but still I'll play whatever you say. Because I always assert that luck may come my way. Let's have a drink!"
The waiter brought the cards. Jean Ficelle took them and sat down opposite Laboussole.
"Sans-Cravate don't play," he said; "he don't like cards."
"Why shouldn't I play, eh?" cried Sans-Cravate, with a violent blow on the table. "Piquet! why, that's my favorite game; I'm very strong at it."
"Well, you shall play after a while," replied Jean Ficelle, winking at his vis-à-vis. "Let me give the inspector of fleas a beating first."
The game began; the players announced that they were playing for two francs the game, but no money was put up. Laboussole lost three games in succession; whereupon Jean Ficelle rose, with a laugh, and said:
"You certainly ain't on your game, old man. I've got six francs to eat up; that's not bad, and I don't want you to ruin yourself treating us."
Sans-Cravate took Jean Ficelle's place, after asking Laboussole:
"Have you had enough?"
"I! nonsense! do I ever crybaby? I'm always on deck when a friend proposes a game. Besides, as I said just now, luck may come my way; she's a female, so she ought to change often. What are we playing for?"
"Whatever you say."
"A thirty-sou piece——"
"The devil! that's rather high!"
"We must make the game interesting."
"All right; thirty sous it is."
The game began; Jean Ficelle took his stand behind Sans-Cravate. Monsieur Laboussole frequently looked up into the air, as if to invoke Fortune and implore her to smile upon him; but his eyes always met Jean Ficelle's, who signalled to him with his fingers.
Sans-Cravate lost the first game; and Monsieur Laboussole cried, with his most affable air:
"You see, my boys, luck may turn any time; that's what I rely on."
"My revenge!" cried Sans-Cravate.
"Always, my boy! always at your service; a well-bred card player never refuses a revenge, under penalty of being called acarotteur; and I've never been called that. But let's have some wine first and drink a bumper! Cards make me horribly thirsty."
Jean Ficelle undertook to fill the glasses. Sans-Cravate lost the second game, and demanded another, which he also lost; but Laboussole did not cease to exclaim:
"You play much better than I do; I can't imagine how I succeed in beating you!"
Sans-Cravate continued to demand his revenge, which Laboussole was always eager to accord; while Jean Ficelle took care that the glasses should be filled as soon as they were empty. The wine and the game soon bewildered Sans-Cravate to the point that he hardly knew what he was doing; his adversary, on the other hand, retained his sang-froid, and combined with it all his social talents. It was not long before Sans-Cravate found that he had lost all the money he had with him; he had not enough left to pay for the wine they had drunk, a part of which was chargeable to him.
"I'll pay for you, and you may owe it to me," said Jean Ficelle. "I am not capable of leaving a friend in a hole."
Sans-Cravate was astounded to find himself without a sou, for he had thirty francs in the morning. He felt in all his pockets, and cried:
"How's this? I have lost all my money! I want to keep on playing and make myself good! I'll play on credit."
But Laboussole moved his chair away from the table and rose, saying:
"I'd like nothing better than to give you your revenge, my boy, but this is the time of day when I have to attend to my duties. I have three houses to inspect to-day; and if a sign of an insect should be found in one of them to-morrow, I should lose my job. A job worth three thousand francs a year, with lodging, candles, and perquisites, don't grow on every bush. So I am obliged to leave you, my bucks; but we will meet again soon; I'll look you up at your place of business on the streetcorner, and I'll give our worthy friend Sans-Cravate all the revenge he wants. Au revoir, my friends!"
Monsieur Laboussole shook hands with each of the messengers. When he took Jean Ficelle's hand, he left in it half of the money he had won from his comrade,—probably in accordance with a previous understanding,—then left the room, saying:
"The next time I see you, friends, I'll give you a prospectus of our enterprise, so that you can see if you wouldn't like to take some shares. You can buy three shares for seven francs ten sous. Dividends of twenty per cent are guaranteed, and you get in addition portraits of the inspectors, which you can have framed, if you choose."
When Laboussole had gone, Jean Ficelle paid the bill and took Sans-Cravate away. He made no resistance; he was dazed by the wine he had drunk, and in a savage humor because he had lost his money, and, more than all, because he had gambled; for he knew in his heart that he was not acting the part of an honest man, and that Jean Ficelle's company was a constant incitement to evil. When a man's conscience speaks to him in that way, when he listens to its reproaches, and, while trying to drown its voice, is none the less dissatisfied with himself, there is still room for hope that he will return to the path of respectability.
The messengers had been walking together for some time, at a somewhat uncertain pace. Jean Ficelle, who loved to talk grandiloquently, and who credited himself with the art of hoodwinking his hearers, was presenting his comrade with a comparison to prove that the gambler who has lost all his money is much nearer to winning than he whose pockets are full. Sans-Cravate listened,without paying the slightest attention; his face was flushed, his expression alert and quarrelsome; he did not step aside for anyone, and he had more than once roughly jostled persons who passed him, and had nearly thrown them down.
"Look out what you're doing," said Jean Ficelle; "you're running into everybody! You'll get yourself into trouble!"
"Why don't they get out of the way? So much the worse for them! and if anyone isn't satisfied, just let him say so."
Suddenly, as they were walking along the canal, Sans-Cravate spied a man talking earnestly with a woman on a street corner. To utter an exclamation, come to a halt, and grasp his companion's arm so hard that he made him cry out, was a matter of an instant with Sans-Cravate.
"What in God's name's the matter?" demanded Jean Ficelle, almost terrified.
"It's him—and her! Yes, there they are together. Look—over there, at the corner of that street!"
Jean Ficelle looked; he recognized Paul talking to Bastringuette, with great earnestness and with an air of mystery.
"Pardi!" he exclaimed; "the turtle-doves have evidently met here by appointment—a long way from our neighborhood, so as not to be seen. How this fits in—when you was just saying that you'd never seen Paul with your fly-away! You see 'em now."
"Yes—and I still doubted! Ah! the villain! but he's got to pay me for his treachery!"
"What are you going to do? Come, Sans-Cravate, no knock-down fight. Just give him a clip—he welldeserves it—and then, off we go! for, although there ain't many people passing, we must look out for loafers."
Sans-Cravate paid no heed to what his comrade said, but strode rapidly toward Paul; Bastringuette had left him, and he was walking away by the canal, when Sans-Cravate planted himself in front of him.
"You don't go any farther," he cried.
"Is it you, Sans-Cravate?" said Paul, looking up at him. "Great heaven! what's the matter? You look like a madman!"
"The matter is that you're a coward, a sneak!"
"Sans-Cravate!"
"Who was that with you a minute ago?"
"Bastringuette."
"And she ran off when she saw me, because she was afraid I'd give her a beating; but I don't beat women, I don't; I take my revenge on men—and you've got to fight with me!"
"Sans-Cravate, you are entirely mistaken—I give you my word of honor. I am not Bastringuette's lover; I have never mentioned the wordloveto her; besides, you know perfectly well that I am in love with another woman."
"That proves that you love two at once, that's all! Oh! you can't fool me any more with your wheedling ways. You're a blackguard, a traitor—I know you now. Come, coats off!"
"Sans-Cravate, you are not in your right mind at this moment. When you are not so excited, you will listen to me."
"No, no, not a word! I've swallowed your insults and been called a coward long enough. It's time to put an end to it."
"But you are mistaken; listen to me."
"I tell you, I won't; we must fight."
"I have told you before that I will not fight with you."
"Then I'll find a way to force you to."
"Yes, yes," said Jean Ficelle, from behind Sans-Cravate; "when a man entices a friend's mistress away from him, he can't refuse to give him satisfaction."
Paul cast a contemptuous glance at Jean Ficelle, and was about to answer him, when Sans-Cravate rushed at him like a madman and shook his fist in his face, crying:
"Will you fight?"
"No, for you are drunk! I am bound to overlook your foolish behavior."
"Oh! that's it, is it?"
And Sans-Cravate, utterly beside himself with jealousy, jumped at Paul, and, seizing him around the waist, threw him against the wall of the canal. The young man tried to save himself; but he stumbled and staggered, and, as he fell, his head struck a large paving stone which, unluckily, had been left lying there; its sharp edge made a deep wound, and the blood soon formed a pool about the wounded man.
Paul did not utter a sound; but Sans-Cravate, when he saw the blood flowing from the wound, stood as if turned to stone, horror-stricken, and his face became ghastly pale. Jean-Ficelle seized his arm.
"Let's be off!" he said; "let's be off! you've given him his dose, and that's all that was needed; now let's cut sticks."
"But he is wounded, he's bleeding," muttered Sans-Cravate.
"Bah! just a scratch—a trifle; that's none of our business."
"No, I won't leave him so; the least I can do is to carry him to that shop yonder, to have his wound dressed."
Sans-Cravate stooped over Paul, who, in addition to the wound on his head, had a badly bruised arm. To take off his jacket and turn back his shirt sleeve, to see whether the arm was seriously injured, was the work of an instant; as he bared Paul's forearm, he saw a small, perfectly distinct, blue cross. He was about to carry the wounded man to a shop near by, when Bastringuette came running up; seeing Paul wounded and bathed in blood, she cried:
"What an outrage! they have murdered him! poor boy! poor Paul!"
And the tall girl, kneeling on the ground, raised the messenger's head and examined it. At that moment, several persons, attracted by her outcry, drew near the wounded man. Once more Jean Ficelle pulled Sans-Cravate by the arm, saying:
"Well! they don't need you here, you see; he'll be well taken care of."
"That's true; you are right—as she is with him, there's nothing for me to do here. Let's go!"
As he spoke, Sans-Cravate hurried away with his comrade, not once turning his head to look back, as if he were afraid to meet Bastringuette's eye.
There was a brilliant reception at the house of a wealthy foreigner, who had taken up his abode in Paris because he had concluded that the people of that city have learned most thoroughly the secret of enjoying themselves, of varying their amusements, and of doing themselves credit with their wealth. He was absolutely right; and as the Parisians are very fond of people who give them dinners, concerts, balls, routs—in a word, festivities of every sort, the residence of the wealthy foreigner became the usual rendezvous of a large number of people, and his receptions were always crowded.
It may be that those persons who insist upon knowing in whose company they are, who are afraid to sit at a card table with a gentleman or lady whose social position is not definitely fixed, might have found much to criticise in the society which was wont to assemble in the salons of Monsieur Grazcernitz (such was the wealthy foreigner's name); but as the number of those who like to be entertained is very considerable, he was always certain of having an abundance of guests.
To obtain an invitation from Monsieur Grazcernitz, it was sufficient to have cut a figure in society, to have made a name for one's self in letters, art, or commerce, to be able to sing an aria or a ballad with taste and expression, to tell an anecdote interestingly, or even to make a pun. To the ladies, the wealthy foreigner was even moreindulgent; a pretty woman, a woman of fashion, a blue-stocking, an unknown or unappreciated artist, were always welcome in his salon. One often met there people whom one never met on the fashionable promenades or at the theatre; just as we may meet at a railroad station a friend whom we have not seen for several years, a mistress who, we supposed, had gone to Russia, an old artist whom we believed to be dead—in a word, someone whom we should vainly seek in the streets of Paris.
Now, Monsieur Grazcernitz's salons were frequently honored by the presence of Monsieur and Madame Plays. Monsieur went thither as his wife's escort, and madame to display her charms and her dresses, and to make conquests. It was at that house that she had made Albert Vermoncey's acquaintance.
Madame Baldimer also was an habitué of the wealthy foreigner's salons. It was at his receptions that she had been named the fair American.
Balivan, the absent-minded painter, was also to be met with there, and the jovial Mouillot, Dupétrain the magnetizer, the young man with the white eyebrows, and Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir, who possessed the art of insinuating himself everywhere.
Tobie Pigeonnier had obtained an introduction to Monsieur Grazcernitz a short time before the loss of his olive; he had been overjoyed to find himself at a function where punch, ices, cake, and delicacies of all sorts, were served in great profusion to the guests. Since the adventure of the fetich, he had not dared to show his face in Monsieur Grazcernitz's salon, and that was not one of the least of his annoyances.
Madame Baldimer had just been announced. She entered the salon under the escort of Monsieur Dupétrain,who, by dint of telling her that he possessed the power of magnetizing and putting to sleep anybody that she chose, had succeeded in inducing her to receive him.
The fair American was magnificently dressed, and resplendent with diamonds and jewelry; the beauty of her face and the splendor of her costume attracted every eye, and a circle soon formed about her.
"That Dupétrain's a lucky dog!" said a very ugly little man; "he is Madame Baldimer's escort, she accepts his arm. How can anyone understand such a whim? to select for her cavalier an ugly creature—with nothing to recommend him—while so many good-looking young men, men of real merit, are paying court to her!"
"What does that prove?" rejoined a gentleman, laughing in the last speaker's face. "You don't suppose Dupétrain is that woman's lover, do you? on the contrary, she accepts his arm because he's of no consequence at all. Besides, she has been courted by many other men, who have been no more fortunate for having acted as her cavalier. That lovely creature impresses me as being inclined to amuse herself at the expense of every man who is attentive to her."
"Do you think so? Haven't some of them fought duels for her?"
"Yes; I believe there has been a duel; but I don't know who the parties were."
The arrival of two new guests changed the subject of conversation. Monsieur and Madame Plays entered the salon. The host went forward to meet the superb and massive Herminie, saying:
"Mon Dieu! madame, what a pleasure it is to see you! we have been deprived of that pleasure so long! Whathas become of you? For more than two months you haven't been seen in society! I have asked about you several times, and been told: 'Madame Plays has gone into retirement in one of her country houses; she receives no one and sees no one; in fact, she has turned hermit.'"
Madame Plays affected a languorous air, as she replied:
"It is true—I haven't been into society for a long while! Ah! I would like never to return to it."
"What! shun society at your age, madame, when you have been its brightest ornament! Why, that is not lawful; it's a crime, it's downright robbery!—Would you allow it, Monsieur Plays?"
Monsieur Plays tried to imitate his wife's manner, as he said:
"My wife took me with her to one of our estates; it was very dull; there were only we two, and we had no visitors; for we didn't tell anybody where we were going, we went off all of a sudden, as if we were ashamed of it. But still, when something has happened to afflict one—you understand—and my wife certainly had good cause for tears in——"
Madame Plays pinched her husband's arm, and whispered:
"Hush! that's enough; hush! Who asked you to say that?"
Monsieur Plays held his peace, and pretended to have a paroxysm of coughing as an excuse for not finishing his sentence. Monsieur Grazcernitz took the fair Herminie's hand and led her to a seat on a divan, with divers other ladies, with whom she soon entered into conversation.
But after a few seconds, the lady at the robust creature's right rose and walked into another salon; in a short time, the lady at her left likewise rose and vanished, and the fair Herminie was left alone on the divan. Thereupon several young men approached her and favored her with an assortment of the insipid, commonplace flatteries of which such a prodigious supply is ordinarily consumed in fashionable salons.
A young man who had talked with Madame Plays a few minutes left her abruptly, and observed to one of his friends:
"That's a most extraordinary thing; I can't understand it."
"What do you mean?"
"You see that lady over there, with whom I was talking just now?"
"Madame Plays?"
"Yes. Well, my dear fellow, I can't imagine what kind of perfume she has about her, but it's absolutely insufferable."
"The deuce you say!"
"It's like the smell of stale tobacco; it's perfectly sickening."
"Impossible."
"Look! there's Alfred leaving her now; let's see what he says.—Alfred!"
"What is it?"
"You were just talking with Madame Plays; did you smell anything?"
"Oh! parbleu! that was what made me leave her. I like to smoke a cigar, but a lady who smells like a guardhouse isn't at all agreeable. She must chew! that's the only explanation."
"She probably adopted the habit in her retirement."
"We must go and ask her husband."
"Oh, no! I should never dare."
"It's evident that you don't know Monsieur Plays! I'll bet you that I dare. Follow me, without making it apparent, and you'll see."
The young man who had spoken last walked up to Monsieur Plays, whom he discovered in an adjoining room, standing near a whist table and watching the game with close attention.
"Well, Monsieur Plays," said the young man, bowing to him, "you seem to be much engrossed by the game?"
"Yes; I am watching it rather closely."
"Are you studying the fine points of whist?"
"I study everything."
"You must be a fine whist player."
"On the contrary, I don't understand the game yet; for ten years, I've been watching it; but I hope that, by dint of watching, I shall learn it finally. My wife absolutely insists on my learning it; that is why I never lose a chance to look on."
"Speaking of madame, Monsieur Plays, she seems to have become alionne[O]in her retirement."
"Alionne! my wife! Why, no; far from it, I assure you! on the contrary, her disposition has become more tractable; she is very mild and gentle now."
"You don't understand me, Monsieur Plays; bylionne, we men of fashion mean an eccentric woman, one who is very far advanced in the modern ideas of progress."
"What! you think my wife is advanced?"
"And, I may say, a woman who smokes. Isn't it a fact that Madame Plays indulges in that pleasure now?"
"My wife smoke! never! Oh! you are entirely mistaken. I can guess why you ask me that; you noticed that she smelt of tobacco, didn't you?"
"Faith! yes, Monsieur Plays, I did notice it; and, if I must tell you, I am not the only person in this company who has noticed it."
"I believe you; oh! I can readily believe you, as I have noticed it myself, and this evening isn't the first time that my wife has exhaled an odor of smoking tobacco. Ever since she took me off to our country place, where we lived like bears, I have noticed that same odor; and I have said to myself more than once: 'My wife smells of tobacco, and it seems to me that the smell is getting stronger and stronger.'"
"And you haven't asked madame what caused it?"
"I beg your pardon; one day I ventured to say to her: 'Herminie, are you in the habit of smoking in private? if you are, don't mind me, I beg you; smoke as much as you please!'"
"Well?"
"Well, my wife considered my question very impertinent, and she punished me—that is to say, she ordered me not to—— But, excuse me, this seems to be a very interesting hand; a gentleman has just made theodd; I must try to understand."
Monsieur Plays turned his attention to the whist table once more, and the young man walked away with his friends, having obtained no new light.
While this conversation was taking place, Madame Baldimer, noticing Madame Plays alone on a divan, went and seated herself by her side. The two ladies were slightly acquainted, having met rather often at Count Dahlborne's receptions, and Herminie had no suspicion that it was thefair American for whom the fickle Albert had purchased a shawl like hers.
"What has become of you lately, madame? it seems an age since we saw you at any sort of festivity; and everybody has been lamenting it."
The tone in which Madame Baldimer spoke might, to some people, have seemed slightly satirical; but Madame Plays saw only amiability therein, and she replied, with a long-drawn sigh:
"I thank you, madame; it is too kind of you to believe that people think of me; but I have been in close retirement, as was very natural after the painful event of which I was the cause, and for which I reproach myself so bitterly! Ah! I dared not show my face!"
Madame Baldimer, after putting her smelling-bottle to her nose, with a muttered: "This is very strange; it smells like a tobacco factory here!" leaned toward Madame Plays, and said:
"You say that you were the cause of a painful occurrence?"
"To be sure; can it be that you have not heard of it?"
"I have not the faintest idea what you mean."
"I supposed that it must have made a great sensation in society, and that is why I ran away and dared not come back! And you have not heard of the duel?"
"A duel!"
"Certainly; a duel about me—that is to say—I had no idea it would go so far. Mon Dieu! there are some women who like nothing better than to have men fight for them; but my remorse is terrible!"
Madame Baldimer bestowed a piercing glance on Herminie, as if she wished to fathom her thoughts.
"Who was the man who fought for you, madame?" she asked.
"Monsieur Albert Vermoncey and Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier, two hot-headed youths who adored me. Oh! what a misfortune it is to arouse such passions! That young Albert had deceived me, it is true; but that was no reason—— Oh! how wrong it was of me to say that I wished to be avenged!"
"Monsieur Albert fought a duel for you, you say? When?"
"The day before I left Paris for the country—about two months and a half ago."
"Well! what was the result of this duel?"
"Horrible, madame, shocking! Poor Albert was killed by that little Tobie—killed with a sword-thrust! That is the calamity of which I am the cause, and for which I shall never forgive myself!"
Madame Plays covered her eyes with her handkerchief; but, instead of the emotional outburst which she anticipated from Madame Baldimer, she was surprised to hear that lady say, with a sarcastic smile:
"Abate your remorse, madame; do not be so heart-broken, I entreat you; for the men who get themselves killed for your sake are still in remarkably good health."
"What! what do you mean by that, madame?" cried the fair Herminie, restoring her handkerchief to her pocket.
"I mean that young Albert Vermoncey is not dead."
"Not dead! Albert not dead! Oh! that is impossible, madame; it was his adversary in person who came and told me the result of their ill-omened meeting! He did not leave Albert until he was certain that he had ceased to breathe; and, as a token of his victory, he took a cigarfrom his victim and brought it to me, and I have worn it here, on my heart, ever since. It has never left me for an instant!"
Madame Baldimer began to laugh more loudly than ever, until she could hardly speak.
"Ah! so you carry a cigar in your bosom," she faltered, at last. "I am not surprised at this odor of tobacco, which I could not understand. Ha! ha! ha! this is most amusing! it was a delicious joke!"
Madame Plays began to take offence at the fair American's hilarity over her adventure.
"Really, madame," she muttered angrily, "I did not suppose that you were so hard-hearted! to laugh because a young man lost his life for me—or, at least, at the hands of one of my chevaliers! I cannot see what there is to laugh at in that."
"Mon Dieu! madame, how many times must I tell you that you are mistaken? that somebody has made a fool of you? Monsieur Albert Vermoncey did fight a duel, it is true, at about the time you mention; but he fought with Count Dahlborne, and I think that I can assure you that you had nothing whatever to do with their quarrel. Monsieur Albert was the victor in that duel; the count was slightly wounded. As for young Vermoncey, he left Paris immediately after the affair; he travelled in Normandie, in Belgium, and in Auvergne; and he returned to Paris yesterday with a girl whom he has abducted and brought back with him without his father's knowledge. You see that I am well posted, madame."
Madame Plays was stupefied, and could not find a word to say; when she recovered herself, her first act was to take a piece of a cigar from her bosom and throwit, with an angry gesture, under the divan on which she was seated. When she was able to speak, she faltered:
"What, madame! can it be possible? Monsieur Albert is not dead? that monster, that perfidious wretch, still lives? You are sure of it?"
As Madame Baldimer was about to reply, a newly arrived guest entered the salon in which the two ladies were. It was Monsieur Vermoncey, Albert's father, who had never before appeared at Monsieur Grazcernitz's reunions. Having frequently met in society the wealthy stranger, who always urged him to come to his receptions, he had considered that courtesy required that he should attend at least one of them; and although he had long since ceased to find any pleasure at such functions, he had decided to pay his respects to Monsieur Grazcernitz on the evening in question.
At sight of Albert's father, Madame Baldimer's features underwent a transformation: her lips closed tightly, her eyebrows drew together, her forehead became clouded, and her eyes, alight with an unaccustomed gleam, seemed to flash fire.
Monsieur Vermoncey passed through the salon into another room; Madame Baldimer followed him with her eyes, and, when she could no longer see him, unable to control her feelings, she sprang to her feet, without answering the soft-hearted Herminie, who had asked her another question about Albert, and hastened into the room which she had seen Monsieur Vermoncey enter. He had taken a seat beside the master of the house; Madame Baldimer seated herself in front of them, and, while apparently listening to the compliments of Monsieur Dupétrain, who joined her at once, her eyes were constantly fixed on the two gentlemen facing her.
Monsieur Grazcernitz passed in review, for Monsieur Vermoncey's benefit, the company assembled in his salons; and as a householder delights to exhibit to you every corner of his house, even to the darkest corridor and the smallest closet, that he may boast of all its comforts and conveniences, so the wealthy foreigner, who was exceedingly proud of his brilliant and crowded reception, took pleasure in singing the praises of his guests, and did not mention a single name without adding a word or two to give it prestige.
"Look," he said, pointing to a little old man with an intelligent and satirical face, whose costume denoted a country gentleman; "that old gentleman at your right is a rich landholder of Bretagne; he passes ten months of the year on his estates, and when he comes to Paris retains his country costume. He has two hundred thousand francs a year, and he cares little what other people say. They wanted to make him mayor, sub-prefect, prefect even—but he refused everything. He's a philosopher after the pattern of Seneca, who inculcated contempt of wealth by drinking Falernian in a gold cup. That gentleman with the decorations, who is speaking to him at this moment, is the chief of a department, captain in the National Guard, and member of the Council of Discipline; he is said to be a very influential man. He doesn't despise offices, not he; he has three now, and is a candidate for two others. This lady here at our left is a charming person; she sings like an angel, when she is well accompanied, but she declares that no one is ever able to accompany her. The little brunette by her side is not pretty, but she's a blue-stocking! she writes poetry, novels, plays, and works for the newspapers; she's the editor of a sheet which is distributed for nothing, and hasan enormous list of subscribers. Oh! that man over yonder is one of the leaders of fashion in Paris. See what a superb figure he has! people fight with one another over having clothes made by his tailor. He once shut himself up for a whole week in his room, trying to determine whether he would wear round or pointed waistcoats. That good-looking youth by the piano is an excellent composer, who will write an opera as soon as he has a suitable libretto. That tall, thin gentleman standing by the fireplace is a talented amateur on the cornet-à-piston; he was to bring his brother, who affects the trombone; they play duets together which are said to be very interesting. And do you see the little, light-haired man in the next room, with a turned-up nose and an impertinent air? He's a ballad singer of the first rank; he imitates Levassor, Achard, and everybody else, with much skill; so that there's a constant rivalry to secure him; he's all the rage at parties. That stout lady with whom he is talking has a magnificent contralto voice; unfortunately, she is never willing to sing."