The Brid'oison family arrived first of the guests. Monsieur Brid'oison: a tall, gaunt man, with the face of a fox, somewhat softened in outline by frequent use of the juice of the grape; but still austere in manner when he was sober. Madame: a tall, yellow-skinned woman, with a face like an axe, red-eyed, and addicted to long, corkscrew curls which hung down to her shoulders. And, lastly, their son Artaban, eight years of age, with curly hair, a flat nose, a long, pointed chin, hands always black with dirt, and an impudent manner; he constantly walked with his head near the ground and his legs in the air, and made his father's bosom swell with pride by so doing.
"Here we are!" said Monsieur Brid'oison; "we have come early, but I don't like to keep people waiting; thereare those who claim that it's good form, but I call it the worst kind of form. How are you, Mirotaine! where are the ladies?"
"Still at their toilet, I presume; women are never done, you know, when they set out to dress."
"Oh! for my part, it don't take me long," said Madame Brid'oison; "five minutes is enough for me."
"Yes, I started my wife right. 'Égilde,' I said to her, 'if you are not dressed in five minutes, I warn you that I won't wait; I'll start without you.'—I tell you, I'm a martinet for being on time!"
"That made me awfully unhappy at first. One day, we were going to dine out; Brid'oison called up to me: 'I'm all ready' and I hadn't put on my garters! I went without 'em, but it bothered me all the time."
"Here's my son Artaban, who's as good a gymnast as Auriol already.—Walk on your head, Artaban, to show what you can do."
The little fellow instantly put his hands on the floor, with his head down and his legs in the air, and made the circuit of the salon in that fashion; but when he put his feet down, he struck the legs of a small table on which the coffee cups had been set out; the shock knocked two of them to the floor, and they were broken. Monsieur Mirotaine made a great outcry:
"The devil take you with your gymnastics! There's two cups smashed! What sort of a crazy idea is it—to make a child walk on his head; and in a salon, too!"
"Bless my soul! don't lose your temper over two cups; and see, here's one of them that has only the handle broken."
"It takes away all its value, none the less."
"I'll give you two others."
"Oh, yes! people say that, but no one ever replaces anything. Do you propose sending your son to the circus, that you make him do such tricks as that?"
"No; I am going to make a lawyer of him."
"Do you expect him to try cases, walking on his hands?"
"My dear friend, gymnastics is always a good thing, in every station of life. A lawyer may have occasion to show how a thief went to work to climb into a window; he'll make a poor fist at it if he doesn't know anything about gymnastics."
The ladies appeared in the salon, accompanied by Madame Trichon.
"What has happened?" inquired Aldegonde; "I heard my husband shouting."
"Nothing, dear madame, a trifle!"
"He calls two handsome cups nothing, which his son broke while he was walking on his head."
"Does your son walk on his head? Dear me! I should have liked to see that."
"He can do it again."
"No, no, I don't want him to do it again—he'll smash all the china we've got!"
"Very well; something else, then—to show you how strong the lad is already.—Artaban, hold out a chair at arm's length.—That won't endanger your cups, Mirotaine.—Come, Artaban, pick out a chair."
The boy took one of the salon chairs, and, although he did not actually hold it at arm's length, kept it in the air for some time; and then, as he felt tired, instead of putting it down on the floor, he suddenly threw it over his shoulder, so that the legs struck Madame Trichon, who was standing behind him, in the face.
"Oh! I am wounded!" she cried, putting her hand to her face; "my nose is broken!"
"No, no, madame; it's nothing at all!" said Monsieur Brid'oison; "your nose is still in place; just a little scratch, that's all!"
"Water! cold water, I entreat you! so that I can bathe my face."
"Your son's gymnastics is very pretty, indeed; I congratulate you!" said Monsieur Mirotaine; "but I hope that he won't give us any more of it!"
"It was because you were in his way; if it hadn't been for that, he'd have put the chair down in front of him. Never mind, he's going to be a fine, strong man; I'm very glad I named him Artaban; he'll have a right to be proud."
Madame Putiphar was the next to arrive, then Monsieur Callé. The latter was a young man of twenty-five, who resembled the heads that hair dressers put in their windows; he was combed and perfumed like a waiter; his chestnut hair was divided by a parting that started from the nape of the neck. He was an exceedingly stupid youth in appearance, and his language accorded perfectly with the expression of his face, which always wore a surprised look; he never entered a salon except sidewise, and never knew what to do with his hat.
This young man glanced furtively at Aldegonde and turned crimson as he shook hands with her husband. Madame hastened to put him at his ease by relieving him of his hat. Monsieur Callé bowed to everyone, including little Artaban, who acknowledged his courtesy by executing a handspring. As for Madame Putiphar—she made herself quite at home at the Mirotaines', and, after making a courtesy, she lost no time in asking:
"Haven't they come yet?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, it's only half-past five, and I said that you didn't dine till six; they're not late."
"Do you expect other guests?" Monsieur Brid'oison asked the host.
"Yes, two gentlemen—whom I don't know."
"What! you ask people to dinner whom you don't know?"
"They come on some—family business."
"And, you see, I know the gentlemen," interposed Madame Putiphar, "and I answer for them. First, there's Monsieur Dodichet, a commission merchant in sugar, a delightful young man, of the best tone, and as gallant as any knight; and his intimate friend, Count Miflorès, an Italian, rich as an English lord, who is looking for a young lady to marry—without any dowry."
"Ah! very good; I see—we understand.—You understand, Égilde, don't you?"
Madame Brid'oison was intent on fastening back one of the corkscrew curls, which persisted in trying to get into her mouth; so she contented herself with an affirmative smile. The dealer in wardrobes added, in an undertone, taking care to move away from Juliette:
"We mustn't act as if we knew the count's intentions, for he wouldn't like it. He thinks that we don't know them, and that he is invited solely because he's Monsieur Dodichet's friend; in that way, you see, he can talk with Juliette and not be embarrassed."
"Very well; still, you did well to warn us. I wouldn't mind a drop of absinthe while we're waiting for dinner—in some water; that opens up the appetite."
"My dear friend, if you want to drink absinthe, you may go down to the café at the corner of the street; don't hesitate."
"Why? haven't you any here?"
"What! absinthe?—a rank poison!"
"Poison when you take it pure; but with plenty of water——"
"There's no doubt but what it's the fashion nowadays," said Madame Putiphar.
"And the count may ask for it, you think?" queried Aldegonde.
"He or his friend Dodichet."
"Then we must send out for some."
Monsieur Mirotaine stamped the floor angrily, as he cried:
"Plague take Brid'oison with his absinthe! Why need he have asked for it? I refuse to buy any! If these gentlemen ask for it, you must say that we've just broken the bottle.—Do you drink absinthe, Monsieur Callé?"
"Oh! no, indeed! never, monsieur."
"Good! that proves that you have a good stomach, which does not need any stimulants to help digestion."
"All right! everyone to his own opinion! When Artaban's twelve years old, I shall have him drink absinthe before his gymnastics."
"That will cap the climax!"
At five minutes to six, the bell rang loudly.
"Here they are!" said Madame Putiphar.
Thereupon each one of the company assumed an air worthy of the occasion. Aldegonde's face took on an amiable expression, Monsieur Mirotaine did his best to smile, Madame Trichon wiped her nose, and the others looked exceedingly curious. Juliette alone did not put herself out; she was depressed; she had hoped that they would not come.
Goth announced: "Monsieur le Comte Mimiflorès and Monsieur Beaubrochet." Maid-servants almost always have the knack of murdering the names that are given them. Dodichet entered the room as jauntily as if it were a tavern, leading his intimate friend by the hand. The friend in question was a man of about thirty-five, of medium height, rather stout than thin, who strove to conceal his utter nullity and stupidity beneath an imposing manner; he had one of those faces which tell absolutely nothing; but he tried so hard to impart some expression to his eyes that he almost made them haggard. His dress was irreproachable, even stylish; but he wore his clothes awkwardly, and carried himself in a way to make people think that he was uncomfortable in them.
Dodichet saluted on all sides, almost laughing outright; he took Monsieur Mirotaine's hand, shook it violently before that worthy had had time to respond to his salutation, and hastened to say in a loud tone:
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Mirotaine; I have long desired an opportunity, and when it presented itself I grasped it. We shall do some business together, Monsieur Miroton—I beg pardon, Mirotaine—and I am a sharp customer and never meddle with anything that isn't sure."
"Monsieur—I certainly——"
"Allow me to introduce my intimate friend, Count Miflorès, a wealthy Italian, who would stand behind me if necessary.—He is anxious to marry, you know," continued Dodichet, in an undertone, "and doesn't want any dowry."
"Yes, monsieur; I was told——"
"Sh! enough! you mustn't seem to know.—Come, Miflorès, and let me present you to these ladies. You are bashful, I know, but that shouldn't keep you from offering the fair sex all the homage that is due them."
Dodichet's assurance, his loquacity and his fine phrases, had the effect that they usually have upon people with little or no wit; everybody considered him delightful, and especially Juliette, to whom he whispered, as he introduced Miflorès:
"Don't be alarmed; he won't marry you. I am a friend of Lucien!"
Juliette could not restrain a faint cry of delight.
"What's the matter?" Aldegonde inquired.
"Nothing!" Dodichet replied; "my foot involuntarily struck mademoiselle's.—I didn't hurt you, I trust?"
"Oh, no! monsieur, you didn't hurt me."
"Then all is for the best, as Voltaire says inCandide. But is it inCandide? Faith! I am not sure; I have read so much in my life that I am all mixed up; I confuse my authors. Somebody asked me lately who wroteLe Mariage de Figaro, and I said Monsieur d'Ennery. I was wrong."
"My friend Brid'oison here bears the name of one of the characters in that play," said Monsieur Mirotaine.
"Ah! monsieur's name is Brid'oison? A fine name! a pretty name! which recalls a very—intellectual character."
"I try to be worthy of my name," said Monsieur Brid'oison, with dignity.
"You are quite capable of it, monsieur. Do you stutter?"
"No, indeed."
"That's a pity; but it may come in time."
"And this is my son Artaban, who is already very strong in gymnastics."
"Is that so? Well, I am not surprised; the little fellow has Hercules written all over his face."
"Do you think so?"
And Monsieur Brid'oison, pleased beyond words, patted his son on the cheek and said to him:
"Do you hear? you resemble Hercules!"
"In what way, papa?"
"I don't know, but in some way."
The supposititious marrying man stood perfectly stiff in the middle of the salon, at a loss what attitude to assume, but scratching his nose very often to keep himself in countenance. He had not said a word as yet, but had contented himself with bowing.
"Monsieur le comte doesn't say anything," whispered Madame Putiphar to Dodichet. "Why on earth doesn't he open his mouth?"
"Never you fear; he'll open it at dinner time."
"He seems very proud."
"That will pass away at the table."
"Ask him what he thinks of Juliette."
"Fascinating! he told me when he came in."
"How did he know which was she?"
"What a question! she's the only girl here; all the other women have worn breeches—have seen fire, I mean."
Goth announced dinner, whereupon Monsieur Miflorès exclaimed:
"Good enough!"
"It would seem that the count is hungry!" muttered Monsieur Mirotaine.
"I agree with him perfectly," said Monsieur Brid'oison.
Dodichet nudged his friend, to signify that he must offer his arm to the hostess. Meanwhile, he offered his own to Juliette, and on the way to the dining-room found time to say a few words in her ear which caused her face to glow with happiness.
They took their seats. Madame Trichon grumbled and made a wry face when she found herself beside little Artaban. Monsieur Brid'oison, offended because she dreaded his son's proximity, insisted that her seat should be changed; but Aldegonde objected, and Madame Trichon held her peace. The soup was served. While it was being passed to her guests, Aldegonde happened to glance at the dishes of hors-d'œuvre, and called to her servant:
"Goth, didn't you put on the table all the pickles and pickled onions I gave you?"
"Why, yes, madame, every one."
"Well, I certainly had many more than that; it's very strange!"
"Does madame think I ate any of 'em? Madame knows very well that I never take anything—especially as everything's kept locked up in this house!"
"Enough! enough!"
"This soup is delicious!" cried young Callé, who had his programme by heart, and knew that he must find everything excellent.
"And the radishes too!" muttered Aldegonde; "my servant has certainly been helping herself!"
"We must all live," said Dodichet. "May I ask you to drink a glass of wine with me?"
After drinking, Dodichet made a wry face.
"Excellent burgundy!" cried Callé.
"But terribly weak!" rejoined Dodichet. "However, perhaps this bottle wasn't well corked."
Monsieur Miflorès ate and drank, and still did not say a word. Meanwhile Juliette, whose fears were all done away with by Dodichet's confidential communication, spoke to her neighbor occasionally, as she offered him something. The soi-disant count contented himself with bowing as he took what she offered, but did not speak.
"Your friend is very silent," Aldegonde observed to Dodichet; "he hasn't a word to say to my stepdaughter, although she seems to be very amiable to him—which is a great surprise to me, I must confess."
"She probably finds monsieur le comte to her liking," said Madame Putiphar; "he's a very fine-looking man, and no mistake."
"I venture to hope that he will talk at dessert."
Dodichet leaned back and struck his friend on the shoulder.
"Well, Miflorès," he said, "haven't you anything to say to your neighbors? they're surprised at your silence."
"I don't like to talk when I'm eating," replied the person addressed, whose mouth was, in fact, full.
"Oh! what exquisite fish!" cried Callé, who had just been served with pike.
"It's a pity it has so many bones," said Dodichet.
At that moment, Madame Brid'oison began to cough as if she were strangling.
"Well! well! my wife has swallowed a bone!" said Brid'oison.
But Égilde informed him by signs that it was not that which made her cough, but one of her corkscrew curls which had got into her mouth.
"Oh! in that case, I've no sympathy for you. What an absurd idea it is for women to wear their hair so long!"
Monsieur Mirotaine passed his time offering everybody water. Monsieur Callé was the only man who accepted it, the result being that the host looked kindly upon him. Young Artaban, who had been very quiet thus far, began to toss his knife and fork in the air, to the great displeasure of Madame Trichon, who said to him:
"That's not the way to behave in company, my boy; at the table you should sit very still, and not play with the knives and forks."
Monsieur Brid'oison, who admired his son's skill, answered for him:
"Artaban isn't playing, madame; he is juggling at this moment like the East Indians; they call it juggling. They have balls which they toss in the air with great dexterity; having no balls, Artaban uses his knife and fork; it's harder, and more dangerous. But don't be alarmed; Artaban is too skilful to hurt himself."
"That may be, but he'll hurt me! he'll throw his fork in my face, and the chair was quite enough for me!"
"But, madame, I will answer for my son. He's as light-fingered as a monkey!"
Monsieur Brid'oison had hardly finished the sentence, when the fork, badly aimed by Artaban, struck MadameTrichon on the chin, just on a level with her teeth. She gave a loud shriek and sprang to her feet in a rage.
"It's outrageous! it's shameful!" she cried; "he has sworn to disfigure me! I insist on sitting at a small table; I will not sit by this little blackguard any longer!"
Monsieur Brid'oison turned scarlet when he heard his son called a blackguard; he mumbled something between his teeth, which, luckily, was drowned by the crash of several plates which the maid dropped, thereby driving Monsieur Mirotaine to despair. Meanwhile, at a sign from Aldegonde, Monsieur Callé had risen and changed seats with Madame Trichon. Thereupon peace was restored, albeit Monsieur Brid'oison continued to mutter:
"Blackguard! call my son Artaban a blackguard! If that woman was a man, she'd have had to give me satisfaction for that!"
The two bottles of Château-Léoville were brought, and Dodichet, having tasted it, exclaimed with the liveliest satisfaction:
"Good! this can fairly be called wine; and it's delicious, too! an intoxicating bouquet!"
"Will you have some water in it?" said Monsieur Mirotaine, offering him a carafe.
"Water in such wine as this? why, it would be downright profanation! I most earnestly hope that no one will think of spoiling it with water.—Miflorès, my dear count, just taste this wine! It will make you eloquent."
"If it does make him eloquent, it will surprise me greatly," said Monsieur Brid'oison to Callé, who was ogling Aldegonde, who was scrutinizing Miflorès, who was gazing in admiration at his brimming glass.
"How they do eat and drink!" thought Monsieur Mirotaine, stifling a sigh; "but I don't see that thissupposed marrying man tries to get acquainted with my daughter. To make up for it, the commission merchant in sugar is very loquacious; he impresses me more or less as ablagueur. Mon Dieu! suppose that my dinner is thrown away!"
Dodichet kept the claret in circulation, but was always careful to help himself first. Monsieur Miflorès succeeded at last in saying:
"Yes, it's a very good wine."
Callé outdid all the rest by exclaiming:
"This wine is perfect nectar!"
The two bottles were soon emptied.
"Give us some more, Monsieur Mirotaine," said Dodichet; "you see how we honor it."
"I haven't any more," Mirotaine replied, "those were my last two bottles."
"Oh! what a pity!"
"But you will have some champagne in a moment."
"If it's as good in its way as the claret, it will be ambrosia."
The champagne arrived with acrême à la vanille, which Goth proudly placed on the table.
"Ah! now for the sweets!" cried Dodichet.
"It's acrême à la vanille," said Aldegonde.
Whereupon Miflorès spoke for the second time.
"So much the better!" he cried.
"He has spoken!" said Madame Putiphar.
"Yes, but not to Juliette."
"That will come with the champagne, no doubt."
Aldegonde served everybody with cream, and everybody made haste to taste it; but, in a moment, exclamations rose on all sides:
"Bah! what on earth is this?"
"What an extraordinary taste!"
"Mon Dieu! how nasty it is!"
"In the first place, it isn't sweetened at all!"
"If that was all! But the taste and the smell! I know that taste, but I can't remember what it is."
Aldegonde summoned the cook, who appeared at once.
"What did you put in your cream, Goth? it has a most peculiar taste."
"I put in what I always do, madame: milk, whites of eggs, a little of vanilla—I didn't have much of that to put in, my word!"
"And sugar?"
"Yes, the candied sugar monsieur gave me wrapped up in paper; I put it all in."
"Ah! I know what it smells of!" cried Dodichet; "it's camphor; your cream is flavored with camphor!"
"What does this mean, Monsieur Mirotaine?" said Aldegonde, looking sternly at her husband; "was it camphor you gave Goth, instead of sugar?"
"If it was, I must have taken the wrong package," said Mirotaine, slightly embarrassed. "As a matter of fact, I have several packages of camphor in my desk—and I must have mixed them with the sugar."
"There is no further doubt, monsieur, that it was camphor you gave the servant."
"Luckily, we know that it isn't injurious," said Dodichet. "Come on! let's open the champagne; that will help us to forget the camphor."
One and all eagerly held out their glasses; the champagne foamed—but only for a moment; and when everybody had tasted it, there was a profound silence; a silence that was most unpleasant, under such circumstances, andwas equivalent to a general "Sh!" as on the stage. At last, Dodichet, who was always outspoken, exclaimed:
"Sapristi! this champagne isn't as good as your claret! The man who sold this to you, Monsieur Mirotaine, sold you too."
"What do you say? Sold me! Why, it's Cliquot, Cliquotcrémant."
"That stuff,crémant!as much as I'm a bishop! I'll get you to give me your dealer's address, so that I may avoid him."
The champagne having proved a flat failure, and Aldegonde having no other wine to offer, the dessert came to grief; and they soon left the table, to take their coffee in the salon.
The guests were not in that vivacious frame of mind which generally signalizes the end of a dinner. To be sure, they had not had much to warm them up; the vin ordinaire was watered, the champagne resembled vinegar; the claret alone had made a success, but two bottles were a very small allowance for eleven people, especially when one of them appropriated half of it.
Madame Trichon was still brooding over the blow from a fork on her chin, and from a chair on her head. Monsieur Brid'oison was sulking because his son had been called a blackguard; his wife continued to swallow her hair; Madame Putiphar and Aldegonde were disturbed by the Italian count's silence with Juliette; the last-namedalone was in a charming mood, and was ably seconded by Dodichet, who, from time to time, hid his face in order to laugh at Miflorès.
The coffee had just been brought, and Aldegonde was filling the cups, when Monsieur Brid'oison offered Monsieur Mirotaine his snuffbox, saying:
"Try this, and tell me what you think of it."
"Why, you know perfectly well that I don't take snuff."
"This brand is well worth departing from your habit."
Monsieur Mirotaine took a pinch and stuffed it into his nose, with a sign of approbation. But the pungent powder soon produced its inevitable effect upon one who was unaccustomed to its use: Monsieur Mirotaine sneezed twice in rapid succession, and the second time the effect was of such a nature that he was obliged to resort to his handkerchief in hot haste, in order to wipe his nose. So he thrust his hand hurriedly into his pocket, and pulled out his handkerchief so quickly that with it he sent pickles, radishes, and onions flying about the room.
Everybody was dumfounded; they gazed in amazement at the hors-d'œuvre strewn about the floor and on the furniture. Madame Trichon alone uttered a cry of pain; the poor woman had no luck; she had received an onion in the eye, and, as it was pickled, it caused the delicate spot it had struck to smart vigorously.
"How is this, monsieur? is it possible that you put some of the hors-d'œuvre in your pocket?" said Aldegonde. "And to think that I suspected poor Goth! Fie, monsieur, for shame! that is unpardonable!"
Instead of asking his wife's forgiveness, Monsieur Mirotaine was on his hands and knees, picking up the delicacies he had unwittingly taken from his pocket. As for Madame Trichon, she went off to weep by herself ina corner, declaring that there was a conspiracy to disfigure her.
While they were taking their coffee, Dodichet said to his friend:
"Come, Miflorès, for heaven's sake talk a little! try to make yourself agreeable to the ladies. You act like an oyster, my dear fellow."
"I didn't ask you to bring me here; it was you who insisted on my coming, saying that it would inspire confidence in the master of the house, with whom you hoped to do a big business."
"That is true, perfectly true; that is why I passed you off for an Italian count."
"Oh! I don't care about that."
"Lying a little more or less doesn't matter; and you are lying by calling yourself Miflorès, when your real name is Seringat; a pretty name, by the way, which reminds one of a canary [serin], a flower [syringa], and a syringe [seringue]. Miflorès isn't your name."
"It was my mother's, so I have a right to take it."
"At all events, you don't want these people to know your real name, and what happened to you, do you?"
"No, no! never! I would rather—I—don't know what."
"Well, I know the whole story."
"But you promised to keep it secret, my good, kind friend."
"Yes; but on condition that you'll be obliging, that you'll do everything for me that I ask you to do."
"That's agreed. Do you want more money? Tell me."
"Not now; but try to be amiable, amusing, polite, while you are here; that's all I ask of you at present."
"I will try right away."
Whereupon my gentleman went to the hostess, took her hand, and kissed it several times.
"What does that mean; does he expect to marry my wife?" thought Monsieur Mirotaine.
But Aldegonde did not find that pantomime unpleasant; she smiled at Miflorès, thinking that he was about to ask for her stepdaughter's hand; but he simply bowed and said:
"There's another pickle under that chair."
Monsieur Callé hastened to pick it up and carry it to Mirotaine, who put it in his pocket, saying to Monsieur Callé:
"You don't let things lie round; you'll make your way."
Dodichet tried hard to enliven the company, and to that end resorted frequently to the decanter containing brandy, the only liqueur that was offered the guests; he helped himself to several glasses, and even went so far as to offer some to the others. Monsieur Mirotaine witnessed this procedure with impatience.
"That fellow makes too free with my brandy," he muttered; "that's the third time he's gone back to it; he pours it out as if he were in his own house! Very bad manners, I call it! I must try to take the decanter away without my wife's seeing me."
The arrival of several of the guests invited for the evening enabled Monsieur Mirotaine to carry out his plan.
Goth announced "Mesdames Boulard," and three middle-aged women appeared, dressed with much coquetry, with little caps that hardly covered the tops of their heads, from beneath which escapedchignonsresembling muffs. Their hoopskirts were so vast that the upper part of their bodies seemed to be poised onballoons; the door of the salon was scarcely wide enough to allow them to pass through.
At sight of this trio, who promised to occupy so much space in the salon, Dodichet said to Brid'oison:
"Your young Artaban ought to perform some of his gymnastics on those balloons, to flatten them out a little."
"You are right. The fact is that women are getting to be ridiculous! before long, one woman alone will fill a whole room! Just look at my wife—what a difference! I have forbidden her to wear hoops; so that she can go anywhere; she's a regular knitting needle."
After the Boulards came the brothers Bridoux. They did not assume to fill much space. They were blowing their noses when they came in, they continued to hold their noses when they bowed; and when they decided to release their hold, exhibited faces of that inane, expressionless type which we see everywhere, and with which we are not tempted to enter into conversation.
One of the Bridoux concealed himself behind the balloon of one of the Boulards. The other exclaimed:
"Why, I don't see Mirotaine; where in the world is our dear Mirotaine?"
Dear Mirotaine had gone to put his decanter of brandy in a safe place. Meanwhile, Madame Putiphar took Dodichet aside and said to him:
"Well, monsieur, how's our business coming on? How does monsieur le comte like our Juliette? he hasn't said a single pleasant word to her. What does it mean? don't she take his fancy? We must know what to expect, you see."
"Don't you be alarmed, Madame de la Toilette; my friend is delighted with your young lady; he finds her full of intellect and altogether to his taste."
"How can he judge her intellect? he hasn't opened his mouth to her!"
"No; but he has heard her talk, which amounts to the same thing. Indeed, she passed him a dish several times and said: 'Will you have some of this, monsieur?'—And the way she said those simple words enabled him to detect her merit."
"Well, when will your count make his proposal?"
"To-morrow, probably; you can understand that he isn't likely to do it to-night, before all these people."
"Then I can tell Monsieur Mirotaine that, and begin to look after the wedding presents?"
"You must look after them at the earliest possible moment, and see that they are worthy of a sultan."
The Putiphar woman walked away, delighted, and was on the point of repeating this conversation to Aldegonde, when Monsieur Dubotté and his wife were announced.
Madame Éléonore Dubotté was a short, plump woman of twenty-five, fair-haired and white-skinned, with a round, fresh face, and exceedingly tender blue eyes, which were fixed upon her husband almost all the time. You will remember that he complained of being loved too well by his wife.
Dubotté went to pay his respects to Aldegonde, having with much difficulty induced his wife to release his arm. Then he shook hands with Mirotaine, who had reappeared without his decanter, and who seemed much flattered because Dubotté had at last accepted an invitation to his house.
But, at sight of Dubotté, Dodichet had made a most amusing grimace.
"The deuce!" he murmured; "here's a contretemps I didn't expect. But, damn the odds! Phœbus has a verynice little wife; I must pay my court to her. Let's get over the recognition."
He went straight up to Dubotté, who was already making eyes at Aldegonde, and cried:
"Halloo! Dubotté, my dear old friend! By Jove! what a pleasant surprise! How are you, Dubotté? is this your good wife you have brought with you? Pray present me to her, my dear friend, so that I may congratulate her on her husband."
Philémon Dubotté uttered an exclamation of surprise when he recognized Dodichet, who had already seized his hand and was shaking it violently.
"By what chance are you here?" he asked.—"How did you ever come to know this scamp of a Dodichet, my dear Mirotaine?"
"What's that? Scamp? I advise you to talk, my fair-haired Phœbus! If your wife wasn't here, I could tell some fine tales about you!"
Monsieur Mirotaine glanced from one to the other of the two friends with a disturbed expression, and seemed to be waiting for Dubotté to explain himself more definitely concerning the so-called commission merchant in sugar, whose free and easy manners were not at all agreeable to him. But Philémon suddenly spied between two hoopskirts the gentleman who had been introduced as a wealthy Italian count. He rushed up to him, crying:
"Well, well! I seem to be in a land of old acquaintances! Here's Monsieur Seringat the druggist, too, whom I had the pleasure of seeing at Pontoise a year ago.—Good-evening, Monsieur Seringat! how is your charming wife?"
When he heard himself called by his real name, Seringat turned pale, then purple; he put his hand to hishead with a despairing gesture, and said in a faltering voice:
"No, that isn't true. I am Miflorès; I don't want to be anything but Miflorès! Let me alone; I don't know you!"
With that, he pushed aside the two balloons that encompassed him, as well as all the people who happened to be in his path, hurried from the salon, seized the first hat he saw in the reception-room, and disappeared, leaving the whole party speechless with surprise, except Dodichet, who dropped into a chair and laughed heartily at the effect of that recognition.
Monsieur Mirotaine was the first who recovered the use of his tongue.
"What does this mean?" he cried. "What! this man who was introduced to me as a wealthy Italian count, who was looking for a young lady without a dowry to marry, is a druggist from Pontoise, and married already? Why, then, I have been made a fool of! There has been an attempt to cheat me!—Answer, monsieur the commission merchant in sugar, and you, Madame Putiphar, who undertake to arrange marriages! What have you to say?"
The wardrobe dealer was sorely confused; she pointed to Dodichet, muttering:
"Why, it was monsieur who told me that he had a friend—who was very rich—who wanted a wife.—Come, monsieur, didn't you tell me that?"
"Yes, I did," Dodichet replied; "I told you so because I thought so. That rascal of a Miflorès deceived me too, and I am in despair.—But, after all, Monsieur Mirotaine, I don't see that there's any occasion for you to fly into such a rage. This mistake has afforded you an opportunity togive your friends a dinner party; you certainly can't be sorry for that. And as for myself, it has given me the pleasure of making your acquaintance, which I hope to cultivate. I will bring you some specimens of sugar and molasses, first quality. Meanwhile, I must run after this Miflorès, who has deceived me shamefully. He will have my life, or I his; but I prefer to have his.—Mesdames, I lay my homage at your feet!"
And Dodichet disappeared almost as abruptly as Seringat.
"Do you suppose that he will really fight with that pretended count?" Monsieur Mirotaine asked Dubotté.
"He, fight with the other one! It's easy to see that you don't know Dodichet! He's ablagueurof the first order, and all this is only a practical joke that he undertook to play on you."
Monsieur Mirotaine fell into a chair, utterly overwhelmed.
"A dinner of eleven covers!" he murmured. "Oh! my fine claret!"
"And your pretended count has carried off my hat!" shouted Monsieur Brid'oison, prowling around the dining-room.
"Cheer up, my dear," said his wife; "the one he has left behind is much newer than yours!"
Madame Dermont occupied a pretty little apartment on Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière; she had only one servant, but that was enough for a woman who lived alone, received little company, and was happier in her own home than at the most fashionable social assemblages. She had about eight thousand francs a year; that would have been very little for one who desired to follow all the fashions and to live a life of luxury and dissipation; it was quite sufficient for one who, like her, did not seek to cut a figure in the world, and who loved to think.
Nathalie was in her salon, seated at her piano and looking at the music. But her fingers were motionless on the keys; it is probable, therefore, that the young woman was thinking of something different from what was before her. It was two hours after her visit to her young friend Juliette.
She was roused from her reverie by the bell. The sound made her start; and yet, she no longer expected anyone—at least, she no longer expected the person of whom she was thinking.
The servant announced Monsieur Adhémar Monbrun. At that name, Nathalie trembled and the blood rose to her cheeks; she struggled to conceal her emotion, cast a glance at her dress, and told the maid to admit the visitor.
Adhémar entered with the ease of manner which is due to familiarity with good society, and is the especial attribute of men of letters and artists.
"I have come rather tardily, madame," he said, "to thank you for your kindness in sending to inquire about the trifling burn on my hand. You must have considered me very discourteous for not coming at once to offer you my acknowledgments, did you not, madame?"
"Why, no, monsieur; not at all. You had burned yourself in my cause; surely, the least I could do was to inquire concerning the condition of your burn; it was my duty; whereas there was no sort of obligation on you, monsieur, to put yourself out and waste your time by calling upon me."
"Oh! madame, allow me to believe that you do not think so ill of me as to deem it possible that it could put me out to come to see you. I should be a very unfortunate mortal if it were not a pleasure to me. But my reason for not coming was——"
"Well, monsieur, it was——?"
"Mon Dieu! madame, I don't know just how to say it. I am embarrassed——"
"You, monsieur, embarrassed with a lady! Oh! I can't believe it—unless, indeed, you have something very disagreeable to say to her; in that case, I can imagine that it comes hard to you."
"Ah! it seems to me that one could never willingly be disagreeable to you—and yet——"
"Well! you haven't told me yet why you didn't come before."
"Well, madame, it was because I thought that when a man had the good fortune to be received by you, he must inevitably feel a desire to come often—yes, very often—and that that might offend you."
Nathalie lowered her eyes, and murmured:
"Really? was that why you didn't come?"
"Yes. You know, madame, there is a proverb that warns us against playing with fire; and, to me, you are the fire at this moment."
"You have already proved to my satisfaction that you are not afraid of it. Do all women cause you such terror? Frankly, monsieur, I do not believe it!"
"Oh, no, madame! there are some with whom one cannot encounter anything more dangerous than anignis fatuus—and that is not to be feared."
"A truce to jesting, Monsieur Adhémar; I want to see your wrist, and satisfy myself that it is really well."
Adhémar pulled up his sleeve and showed her the wrist that had been burned. The better to examine it, Nathalie must needs take the hand which was held out, and draw it toward her; and that hand, when she touched it, presumed to press hers very tenderly, thereby causing keen emotion to the young woman, who faltered:
"It is cured, but you have a great scar there. Mon Dieu! shall you always have it?"
"I hope so!"
"What do you say? you hope so? Why?"
"Because it will remind me of the day when I had the good fortune to be of some little service to you."
"Some little service! Why do you say a little, when it is quite possible that you saved my life?"
"Ah! if you really do owe me anything, it depends only on you to pay the debt."
"How, pray?"
"You cannot guess, madame?"
"No, monsieur; I am not good at guessing."
"Oh! I beg your pardon—but you should be better able than any other to divine the thoughts that come from the heart."
"Why I, more than another?"
"Because there is a something in your eyes which indicates their perspicacity."
"If my eyes have such a peculiar expression, I shall not dare to raise them again."
"Oh! do not deprive me of the pleasure of looking at them; that would be a punishment."
"Come, come, monsieur, don't talk to me in this way; you are in the habit of making pretty speeches to all women, no matter how little they may deserve them; but, as a general rule, they are accustomed to your language, to your flatteries, and they laugh at them because they know that they must not take too seriously the gallant speeches of a man to whom love is only a pleasant pastime. But I am not one of those women, monsieur! I go into society very little, and the life that artists lead is entirely unfamiliar to me. You will agree, will you not, that if I should take what you have said to me as being said in earnest, if I should place any reliance on your words, I should make a great mistake and should very soon have reason to repent?"
Adhémar was silent for a few moments; but he looked at Nathalie, and his expression was almost sad. At last he said, with a sigh:
"Ah! madame, if I had the good fortune to be loved, I should be too happy! But, no; women are all inconstant, they never love truly; they want to be adored, but they reserve the right to love us only in accordance with their caprice."
Nathalie could not restrain a smile, as she replied:
"You have a very singular way of paying court to one of them!"
"Oh! I beg your pardon, madame, I beg your pardon; I didn't mean that to apply to you!"
"But you were speaking of women in general?"
"True; but, of course, there are exceptions."
"Have you never met any of the exceptions?"
"No, I have not had that good fortune."
"And that is what has given you such a bad opinion of all women?"
"Oh! I am wrong, no doubt; for, after all, the fact that no one has ever loved me doesn't prove that they may not have loved others."
"Do you say that no one has ever loved you, monsieur?"
"Never really, madame."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Only too sure, alas!"
"But, monsieur, have you, who think that no one has ever really loved you, have you yourself ever loved in that way?"
Adhémar did not reply for some seconds, then murmured:
"Why, I think so——"
"Ah! you are not perfectly sure!"
"When one is inclined to love passionately, madame, if he sees that his passion is not reciprocated, don't you think that that should suffice to lessen his ardor?"
"No, monsieur, I do not think so; I think that when one is really in love, it is not so easy to banish from one's heart the object of one's love. In short, it is my opinion that love is not to be reasoned with, and that when you come to the point where you begin to reason you have ceased to love. But, upon my word, this is a strange conversation; one would think that we had to write anessay on the proper way to love.—Have you produced a new play or written a new novel since I saw you?"
"No, madame, no; I have done nothing."
"You have been lazy, eh? Fie! that's very bad!"
"No, I haven't been lazy; but I have been preoccupied—which is by no means the same thing, and is a much greater hindrance to work."
"You know Monsieur Lucien Grischard, do you not, monsieur?"
"I do, madame; but how did you know?"
"Oh! in the most natural way; this Monsieur Lucien knows—indeed, I may say that he is courting a young lady who is my most intimate friend, Mademoiselle Juliette Mirotaine."
"Yes, he is very much in love with her, and would like to marry her; he has told me that."
"And Juliette has no secrets from me; she is very fond of this Lucien, whom her father refuses to allow her to marry. She has told me all her sorrows."
"Very good; but I don't quite see where I come in."
Nathalie blushed, hesitated, and finally replied:
"If my friend tells me everything that interests her, do you not think, monsieur, that I should do as much? That accident of mine—which, but for you, might have been so disastrous to me—I told her about that, and naturally I told her the name of the person who had—burned himself in his efforts to put out the fire. When she heard your name, which is so well known, she cried: 'That gentleman is a friend of Lucien!'—And that is how I knew that you know him. Is that explanation satisfactory, monsieur?"
"Ah! madame, it is a thousand times too kind of you to give it to me; my reason for asking was to find out whether you had remembered me."
"It would have been very ungrateful on my part to forget you so soon."
"Mon Dieu! madame, a very clever man has said: 'Ingratitude is independence of the heart!'—That is rather sad, but it is more or less true."
"No, monsieur; ingratitude simply proves that one has no heart."
The conversation was prolonged to a great length between those two, who understood each other so well even when they were silent. But Adhémar was afraid of presuming too far, as it was his first visit; so he took his leave of Madame Dermont at last, saying:
"Will you allow me to come to see you again?"
Nathalie accorded him that permission with such a pleasant smile that it was impossible to doubt the pleasure it afforded her to give it.
As he left the pretty widow's presence, Adhémar said to himself:
"That is a most charming woman; I feel that I should soon love her dearly. Perhaps it would be wiser for me not to see her again; for, if I yield to the temptation to love her in good earnest, she will do like the rest, she will deceive me and make me unhappy. But I am arguing as if she were already my mistress! What right have I to think that she will love me, that she will yield to me? But something tells me that she will. Well, after all, why should I be afraid to be happy when the opportunity offers? 'We must love!' said Jean-Jacques; 'we must love!' said Voltaire.—That is the only subject, I fancy, on which those two famous men agreed. So we must not repulse love when it tries to steal into our hearts; and even though it should cause us more pain than pleasure, that is better than not to love at all."
Madame Dermont did not say all that to herself, but she yielded to the impulse of her heart, which disposed her to love Adhémar; his personality attracted her, and even before she knew him she loved him for what he had written. Now that she knew him, it gave her pleasure to hear him talk; a secret sympathy drew her toward him, and, despite his low opinion of women, she did not try to combat the love which was taking possession of her heart; she hoped to compel him in the end to do justice to her sex; for, as she was not fickle in her tastes, she could not understand how all women could be frivolous and inconstant.
It caused her great joy, therefore, to hear Adhémar ask permission to call upon her again; and if she was unable to conceal the pleasure that request afforded her, it was because she was not a coquette and did not attempt to hide her real feelings beneath a feigned indifference.
It is time for us to turn our attention to that husband whom his wife adored—a state of affairs which is sometimes seen, but which is of uncommon occurrence none the less. And instead of manifesting his gratitude for that conjugal adoration, and for the loving caresses which his wife lavished upon him, by graceful little attentions and amiable behavior, the husband in question seemed, on the contrary, fatigued, annoyed, bored, by madame's caresses; indeed, he sometimes evaded them on the mostfrivolous pretexts. For men are made that way; and if their wives deceived them, they would fall in love with them again. Poor, weak mortals! who complain when you possess, and complain even more loudly when you have ceased to possess! You are never content, and it is so with everything! As for myself, ever since I was born, I have constantly heard men complain of their plight in love, in politics, and in business; I have always found people discontented; and, at all periods of time, and under all governments, I have heard merchants and tradesmen say: "Everything is at a standstill; there's nothing doing; business is wretched!" and other complaints of the same sort, which do not prevent business from going on as usual—some making their fortunes, others becoming insolvent, as in all times.
After the hurried exit of the false Italian count and the commission merchant in sugar, the remainder of Monsieur Mirotaine's guests were, as may be imagined, in a state of much confusion and excitement; those who had been present at the dinner, and were aware of its object, looked at one another without speaking; but those who had come for only the evening plied the host and his wife with innumerable questions; while they as persistently questioned Dubotté, who had laid bare the fraud.
"But are you quite sure, my dear Dubotté," said Mirotaine, "that this pretended Count Miflorès is really one Seringat?"
"Perfectly sure; Seringat, apothecary at Pontoise. I passed nearly two months in that city, where I went to receive a legacy.—You remember, Nonore?"
"Oh! I should say so! I was unhappy enough while you were away; I did nothing but cry!"
"You cry far too much when I am away, my dear love; you must cure yourself of that habit, or it will make your eyes as red as a rabbit's.—As I was saying, during my stay at Pontoise I met Monsieur Seringat in society several times."
"And he is married?"
"Very well married; to a very pretty woman, who, I am sure, does not amuse herself weeping when her husband is away. I had the pleasure of dancing with her at a party given by the notary of the town."
"Ah! you bad man! you danced when I wasn't there!"
"My dear love, if when a man is married he is debarred from tripping the light fantastic except with his wife, it would be enough to disgust men with marriage forever! You absolutely refuse to realize that although a man has a wife he is none the less bound to be always polite and agreeable to other women. I have told you that a hundred times!"
"And what about his wife?"
"Parbleu! his wife has the same rights! And, above all things, she ought not to do as you do—keep herself in her husband's pocket all the time. Why, it's beastly form; it's as vulgar as the devil! You really must cure yourself of that; I don't want you to be vulgar."
"But," continued Monsieur Mirotaine, "I cannot see what motive this Monsieur Seringat can have had to present himself in a respectable house, under a name which doesn't belong to him, and as a man who desires to marry?"
"He told you that he desired to marry?"
"He didn't breathe a word of it," said Aldegonde, "and he didn't make a single effort to talk with Juliette."
"Then why do you say that he wants to marry; for, unless his wife is dead—and that seems to me most improbable, as she was young, and as fresh as a rose——"
"You noticed that, Philémon?"
"Oh! my dear love, don't comment in this way on every word I say, I beg you! I have noticed many other women since."
"Ah! you villain! And what about me?"
"You! why, you are my wife, and that ought to satisfy you; it seems to me that that's something to say!—To cut it short, my dear Mirotaine, I tell you again, this whole business is probably a joke invented by my friend Dodichet, who passes his time looking about for somebody to make a fool of. And so, although he's an old schoolmate of mine, I have never asked him to my house; not that I am afraid of his nonsense; I have a wife, thank God! with whom I can sleep with both eyes shut!"
"And that is just what you do, my dear; you always sleep when you're with me."
"Hush, Nonore! These domestic details are never talked about in company."
"Why not, my dear?"
"Why, because——"
Monsieur Mirotaine was as savage as a bulldog because he had given a dinner party to no purpose. Aldegonde was annoyed at being deceived by her dealer in wardrobes, who had gone away in dire confusion at having made a mess of it. The rest of the company soon followed Madame Putiphar's example; the three balloons withdrew, constantly colliding with one another; Monsieur Brid'oison, in the hat which had been left in place of his; Artaban, climbing on his father's shoulders;Madame Trichon, rubbing the eye which had received the pickled onion; and young Callé, looking longingly at Aldegonde, who did not look at him because she was angry. Juliette alone was happy, but she dared not show it.
Lastly, Dubotté and his wife took leave of the host and hostess.
"This party has been a failure," said Philémon to young Callé, who put on his gloves as he went downstairs. "It's only ten o'clock—what in the deuce can we do now?"
"Seven minutes past ten!" said the young spark, looking at his watch; "I agree with the Treasury."
"Never mind; a fellow can't go home to bed at seven minutes after ten; for my part, I hate to go to bed early."
"True—it's bad form."
"But you always want me to go to bed early, my dear."
"Yes—because it's very healthy for women; they need more sleep than we do.—Which way are you going, Monsieur Callé?"
"Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, No. 8, monsieur."
"Indeed! and we live on Rue Bleue, within a few steps. By the way, Monsieur Callé, are you related to a Callé of Lyon, wholesale dealer in silks?"
"He's my cousin, monsieur."
"Pardieu! he's one of my best friends. When we were bachelors, he used to come to Paris often; we've had many a spree together!"
"What, my dear! did you ever go on sprees?"
"I was speaking to Monsieur Callé, Nonore; it doesn't concern you.—So you are Édouard Callé's cousin?"
"I have that honor."
"Sapristi! what a bore it is to go home at ten o'clock!"
"If you want to take me anywhere, my dear, I am all ready."
"Why, no, madame, no; I don't care to take you anywhere to-night. It's too late to go to the theatre—so there's nowhere to go but a café, and men don't take their wives to a café; it's very bad form. Besides, women don't enjoy it, and they're terribly in the way."
"But you go there a great deal!"
"I go to my club—a most excellent club, where one can always have a game of cards; and I confess that I am strongly inclined to go there and play a game of whist."
"Well! take me to your club."
"Upon my word! as if women were ever admitted! Women at a club! Why, we couldn't hear ourselves talk! I feel just like going there to-night, but it's in an entirely different direction from my house. It just occurs to me that as Monsieur Callé lives in our quarter, it would not inconvenience him very much to leave you at our door; in that way, I could go to my club."
"I am entirely at your service, monsieur, and it will give me great pleasure to escort madame."
"What! you are going to leave me, Philémon? you are going to send me home with monsieur, whom I hardly know?"
"Why, bless my soul, Nonore! I don't see that monsieur has a very terrifying aspect. Besides, he is a friend of Mirotaine, and the cousin of a man with whom I am very intimate; so he isn't a stranger to me."
"I don't care for that; you know very well that I am not in the habit of taking any man's arm but yours."
"Exactly; and it's a most absurd idea, of which you must cure yourself."
With that, the fair-haired beau took his wife's arm from within his own and turned it over to the young man, who was modestly waiting.
"My dear Monsieur Callé," he said, "I intrust my wife to you, and my mind is entirely at ease; I am convinced that you won't lose her."
"Oh! no, monsieur; I will not leave madame until she is safely inside her door."
"Thanks.—Au revoir, Nonore! go right to bed; I shan't be late."
"Philémon! Philémon! you are going away without kissing me!"
But Philémon was already at some distance; delighted to be rid of his wife, he had fairly taken to his heels. The loving Éléonore heaved a profound sigh, and decided at last to take the arm which young Callé offered her. They walked away, the little woman still sighing, her escort cudgelling his brain to think of something to say to console her.
"If madame thinks that we are walking too fast," he faltered at last, "we can walk more slowly."
"Oh! this is all right, monsieur."
And they walked on in silence. In a moment, the little woman, who was rather fond of talking, opened the conversation.
"You are not married, are you, monsieur?"
"No, madame; I am a bachelor."
"When you are married, shall you send your wife home under the escort of some acquaintance?"
"Mon Dieu! madame, I must confess that I don't know what I shall do."
"Shall you be displeased if your wife always wants to go out with you?"
"Oh! I think not, madame."
"Will it annoy you, if she comes to you often for a kiss?"
"Oh! certainly not; far from it! especially if—especially if she—no, it wouldn't annoy me."
Monsieur Callé had tried to pay a compliment to the lady on his arm, but it would not come out.
"Well," continued Éléonore, "my husband often pushes me away when I take a fancy to kiss him."
"He does it in joke, of course?"
"No, monsieur; sometimes he even scolds me; he declares that my manners are vulgar; that only workingmen's wives kiss their husbands like that. Is that true?"
"Oh! I can't tell you, madame."
"If it is, I am sorry my husband isn't a workingman; because then I could kiss him when I wanted to, and he wouldn't think I was ridiculous."
Callé made no reply, but he thought:
"It seems that this lady is very fond of kissing. If I were her husband, I wouldn't object. She isn't such a beautiful woman as Madame Mirotaine, but her manner is gentler—and then, she seems to be very caressing."
In due time they arrived at Dubotté's abode. Éléonore thanked her escort, who bowed respectfully and tried again to make some complimentary remark, but with no better success, although his efforts were rewarded by a courtesy.
"That gentleman is very polite," said Madame Dubotté to herself, as she entered the house; "but he doesn't talk enough."
Monsieur Dubotté, who returned home very late that night, because he had been elsewhere than to his club,did his utmost to get into bed without waking his wife; a manœuvre which he often executed, and in which he was very skilful. The next morning, while he was dressing, he said to madame:
"Well, my dear love, were you content with your escort? You got home without accident, I fancy?"
"Oh! yes, he's a very nice young man; he brought me to the door."
"Pardieu! did you suppose he would drop you half-way? You asked him to come to see us, I hope?"
"No, I didn't; why should I ask him?"
"You should have done so; it would have been no more than polite. Do you know, I like that little Callé; I should be very glad to have him visit us. He's a young man to whom one can safely intrust his wife."
"Why, my dear, do you expect to send me about with another man often?"
"I don't say that; but there are unforeseen circumstances. For instance: we have tickets to the theatre; I often have them, you know, through my connection with the actors. Well, I can't go; or, at least, I can't go till very late; then what do I do? I ask Callé to escort you to the theatre, and I join you there when I have finished my business; do you see?"
"What! you would let me go to the theatre with another man? O Philémon!"
"But if I come and join you there, it's precisely the same thing as if I went with you! That sort of thing is done every day."
"Well, I simply shouldn't enjoy it without you."
"Don't you understand that I would come, too—later?"
"That isn't the same thing."
"Oh! how far behind the times you are, my dear love! Luckily, I know that young man's address; he told us what it was: No. 8, Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne."
"And you mean to go to see him?"
"His cousin was my intimate friend, and he can tell me something about him. Stay! I have an idea: I'll invite him to dinner; the fellow's all right socially, so that we can afford to receive him; he isn't like that scamp Dodichet—there's a man I will never invite! That was a neat trick he played on Mirotaine. But why is this Seringat, this Pontoise druggist, in Paris under an assumed name? What can he have done with his wife? If I had time, I'd go to Pontoise and find out."
"You'd take me with you, wouldn't you?"
"Oh! there you are again! how amusing that would be! To stuff my wife in my pocket for a little trip of twenty-four hours, and double, yes, treble the expense! That would be downright idiocy. But, don't worry; I haven't the time to go to Pontoise."