In a very handsome house on Rue Caumartin, the windows of an apartment on the second floor were still brightly lighted, although it was after three o'clock in the morning.
In that fashionable quarter, it was a fair presumption that anybody who was still out of bed at that hour would be indulging in the pleasures of card playing, music, or dancing; that an evening party had been prolonged until that hour, and that the master or mistress of the housetook pride in having the dawn find their guests still under their roof.
But such a presumption would have been false in this instance. In a luxurious salon, where several candles were still burning, a man sat, alone, on the corner of a couch, his head bent forward; and, to judge by the expression of his features, by the melancholy look in his eyes, he had not passed the night in merrymaking.
He was a man of some forty-six years, of medium height and distinguished bearing. His grave, dignified face had been very handsome. His great blue eyes were still instinct with charm when he smiled; but that happened very rarely. His habitual pallor, the numerous lines on his forehead, were eloquent of sorrow, ennui, and heartache—of all those sentiments which bring premature old age to those who have come into the world with a sensitive soul, and of which selfish egotists have no knowledge; wherefore, they are able to retain their youth, freshness, and health much longer than the others. Heaven has done everything for the selfish man!
The man who sat there so late at night, alone, was Monsieur Vermoncey, Albert's father.
His eyes turned frequently toward a clock on the mantel. After every glance, he listened, as if hoping to hear the rumbling of a carriage or the sound of footsteps in the street, then threw his head back, saying to himself:
"He is enjoying himself, no doubt, with his friends—or his mistress. But he is using up his life too fast, he is ruining his health. Mon Dieu! and I have no one left but him—no one else! all my other children have followed their mother to the grave. If I should lose Albert, what would become of me? what can a man do on earth, when he has no one left to love?"
Monsieur Vermoncey seemed utterly overwhelmed; profound grief was depicted in his eyes, which he kept on the floor for a long while, as if melancholy memories of the past were blended with his present anxieties. He sighed at intervals, as he murmured:
"My wife, whom I loved so passionately! my children, whom I idolized! Ah! how men change! when I was Albert's age, how far I was from thinking that the most delicious joys are those that one knows in his own family, with his wife and children! But at twenty-two the heart is not as yet open to all sentiments; at that age, a man does not know what he wants, or whom he loves! He treats lightly the most serious things, and repents afterward—sometimes, when it is too late."
He rose and walked about the room a few times, then continued:
"I am foolish to be anxious. Albert is enjoying himself, that's all. I ought to have gone to bed long ago; but it is useless for me to try to sleep, when I know that he has not come in. His conduct for some time past has been very reprehensible. He spends his money foolishly, he makes undesirable acquaintances; but his heart is sound at bottom; he will become reasonable in time; I must not forget that I was young once."
As he made this reflection, Monsieur Vermoncey fixed his eyes on the floor again, his brow became clouded, and he put his hand to it several times as if he sought to brush away some painful memory.
Meanwhile, the sun had risen: he heard the rumbling of the milkwomen's carts, the heavy tread of the peasants returning from selling their vegetables at the market, the song of the early workman going to his work, andthe dialogues between the concierges as they swept their doorsteps.
Monsieur Vermoncey rang; in a few seconds a servant appeared, whose red face, half-closed eyes, and sluggish gait proved that he had not followed his master's example, and that he had with difficulty roused himself from sleep.
"Has my son come in, Florent?" inquired Monsieur Vermoncey, as if anxious to be convinced that he had not listened intently all night.
The servant replied, rubbing his eyes:
"I think not, monsieur; but I will go to his room and see; sometimes he doesn't wake me when he comes in."
"Ah, no! he has not come in!" said Monsieur Vermoncey to himself, nervously pacing the floor. "And it's after five o'clock. He doesn't usually pass the whole night away from home, without telling me. Probably some card party which lasted till morning.—Yes, I know that I am foolish to worry, but I cannot help it. A man endangers his life so recklessly sometimes! Intrigues with women are often dangerous! All husbands are not disposed to allow themselves to be betrayed, and say nothing. But it seems that the more obstacles there are to making a woman's acquaintance, the more determined we are to possess her."
"Monsieur Albert has not come home since yesterday," the servant reported.
"Very well, Florent. I am going to my room; but come and tell me as soon as my son comes in."
Monsieur Vermoncey went to his bedroom, where there were portraits of his wife, of Albert, and of the three children he had lost. He stood a long while in front of the picture of his wife. She had died when she was stillyoung and lovely, and she was so represented in the portrait. It would be a consolation to those who die when they are still in life's summertime to know that when we think of them we shall always recall them as being young and fair; and regret that they could not have enjoyed a long life, in which we fancy them growing old in years, perhaps, but never in appearance.
After gazing long at the features of his beloved and regretted wife, he turned his eyes sadly upon the portraits of his children. His eyes filled with tears as he looked at those he had lost; then he glanced at the portrait of Albert, which had been painted more recently, and was a perfect likeness; it seemed that he hoped to derive consolation and courage from the features of his only remaining child; but in a moment his eyes began to wander about the room, as if in search of still another portrait. At last he threw himself into a chair, and, resting his head on his hand, abandoned himself anew to his reflections.
It was seven o'clock in the morning when Albert returned to his father's house. It will be remembered that, after passing the night in the artist's studio, the young men had gone upstairs to see the pretty neighbor, whom they had surprised in the loft. So Albert had but just left his friends, when Florent hurried to Monsieur Vermoncey's room to tell him that his son had come home.
The father's downcast features were instantly lighted up with an expression of joy and happiness; his son's long absence had really disturbed him, but a single word put all his fears to flight. He rose hurriedly, intending to go at once to Albert, then checked himself, thinking that his son would be angry if he knew that he had not gone to bed. But the longing to embrace him carried the day, and he went to his son's room.
Albert's apartment was on the same floor as his father's; only the width of the hall separated them. The young man had just taken off his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and was putting on a robe de chambre, when his father appeared.
"What! up already?" cried Albert.
Monsieur Vermoncey's only reply was to go to his son and embrace him; he, meanwhile, scrutinized his father closely, then said:
"I'll wager that you haven't been in bed; yes, I can tell by the tired look of your eyes; you have had no sleep, probably because I did not come home; you are quite capable of sitting up all night for me! Allow me to tell you that that is utterly absurd. Am I still a child? Am I not at liberty to stay at a house where I am enjoying myself, if I have an opportunity, or to play a game of cards with my friends? In a word, father, may I not venture to pass a night away from home, without your sitting up for me, like a schoolboy who is thought to be lost? I tell you again that it is very annoying to me!"
"I have not reproached you," said Monsieur Vermoncey, fixing his eyes upon Albert.
"No, you don't reproach me, but that makes no difference. Do you think that I can take any pleasure at a party that happens to last far into the night, if I know that you are sitting up for me, that you are anxious about me? Nothing of this sort would have happened if I had carried out my first idea. I wanted to live somewhere else; then you wouldn't know at what time I came home. I know very well that you don't interfere with my doing whatever I choose; but a man is always more at liberty living by himself, and it would be much better."
Monsieur Vermoncey replied, with a melancholy air, but with dignity:
"After all the misfortunes that have crushed me to the earth, I thought that I might venture to ask you to comply with my wishes in some slight measure. Having lost your mother, your brothers, and your sister, and having nothing but your presence to assist me to endure my grief, I thought that you would not seek to deprive me of it, but that you would feel how essential it was for me to be able to rest my eyes on one of my children, the only one heaven has deigned to leave me. In spite of that, I did not curtail your liberty at all, I claimed no right to pry into your acts—although, perhaps, a father is entitled to know what his son is doing. But as it seems that I have asked too much, that, in asking you to live in the same house with me, I demand too great a sacrifice, go, my son, leave this apartment; I will not seek to detain you, but I shall not cease, on that account, to love you as dearly as ever."
While his father was speaking, Albert's expression changed; it was easy to read in his eyes that his father's reproaches had reached his heart. Monsieur Vermoncey had hardly finished, when his son threw himself into his arms.
"I am wrong, father, I am wrong!" he cried; "I am a heedless fool! I don't know what I am saying! I say things that grieve you, who have always been so kind and generous and indulgent to me! Please forgive me! Forget all that I have said, and let there be no more question between us of living apart. I know that I should never be so happy anywhere else as with you. All these friends of mine—my companions in pleasure—I go with them because I have a good time with them; but I promiseyou that I appreciate them at their real value. Come, embrace me. You are not angry with me any longer, are you?"
Monsieur Vermoncey replied by pressing his son to his heart. A loving word from one we love suffices to make us forget a thousand causes of complaint that have long been gathering. Moreover, indulgence is always to be preferred to severity, so long as the faults committed are not of those which should cause us to blush.
"No, my dear boy, I am not angry now," said Albert's father at last. "I am well aware that at your age it is natural to seek amusement, and I do not blame you for it. My affection takes alarm too easily, I agree; but what can you expect? I have had so much unhappiness! my heart has been so cruelly torn! Such wounds never heal entirely; they leave us in a constant state of anxiety concerning the little happiness heaven has left us. Let us say no more about it. If you are happy, that is all I want; especially if you deal frankly with your father, if you look upon him as the best of your friends—I do not mean of those friends whom you mentioned just now. By the way, among others, there is a Monsieur Célestin Valnoir, ordeValnoir, who is almost always with you. I don't like that young man; if he were simply a little wild—a high liver—that would be nothing; but I do not think that he's sincere."
"Faith! father, you may very well be right about it; however, I am inclined to call Célestin selfish rather than insincere. He's a delightful fellow in company, provided that you don't ask him to do anything for you! Moreover, he has the art of making himself useful, indispensable, in fact. He can order a dinner perfectly, he plays all kinds of games, and he talks on allsubjects with a cool self-possession which dazzles and fascinates one. He finds a way to make one do whatever he wants."
"Take care, my boy; you are naturally trustful and obliging. I know that you are constantly in this Célestin's company. I have told you many times that you should be more particular in the choice of your friends than of your mistresses. You seem to have been spending your money freely of late; but it is what came to you from your mother, and you are entitled to spend it as you choose. Come, confess that the funds are rather low just now."
Albert smiled and lowered his eyes.
"In truth, father—as you are so good at guessing, I will not try to hide it from you any longer. I have been foolish—very foolish. I have let myself go without reflection. I have been very unlucky at cards. Oh! I know that I am very foolish to play; it would be much better never to touch a card. I will reform. I won't play any more."
"So that now you haven't any money?"
"I haven't a sou! but I have no lack of resources, of acquaintances."
"That's it; you will apply to usurers, who will consummate your ruin, instead of coming frankly to your father."
"Because you have done so much for me already; I shrank from abusing your indulgence."
"Nonsense! so long as you love me, I never shall regret what I do for you. Besides, will not my fortune be yours some day? for you know that I shall never marry again. My only reason for not turning it all over to you now is that, as I am more prudent than you, Iprefer to keep it for you until a time when you yourself will be less thoughtless. Now, I look upon myself as your steward, I am managing your property."
"Oh! father, what do you mean? Are you not at liberty to dispose of your fortune?"
"For whose benefit would you have me dispose of it, if not for my son's? But the steward may presume, now and then, to preach a little; then he will have to turn to and make up the deficit. Here, my boy, take this wallet; you will find ten thousand francs in it; that will save you the trouble of applying to your companions in pleasure, who would refuse you, or to usurers, who, having to wait until my death for their money, would charge you a hundred per cent interest."
Albert was keenly touched by his father's kindness; he pushed away the hand that held the wallet, saying:
"You are too good, father; really, you are too good to me! But I will not take this money, I ought not to take it. You make so many sacrifices for me, and I am unworthy of them! I spend money so foolishly! No, it's too much; I will not accept it."
"I insist upon your taking it. I insist, do you hear? Am I not your father? do you refuse to obey me? If you do, then I shall be seriously angry."
Albert took the wallet, saying, as he embraced his father:
"Upon my word, you spoil me, as you did when I was a child."
"What would you have? it is my method. I have always thought that parents had better success by taking that course. I have an idea that, if I give you money to satisfy your whims, that very fact will lead you to spend it less heedlessly."
"Yes, you are right; I will make myself worthy of your indulgence."
"Enjoy yourself, be happy, and love me; that is all that I ask of you; and don't place too much dependence on your friend Célestin, who does not inspire me with confidence."
"I will follow your advice, father, I promise you."
"And I, for my part, promise to be more reasonable. I will not sit up for you any more; I will go to bed—do you understand? I will go to bed. But, I beg you, think of your health, and avoid dangerous intrigues, which sometimes lead to deplorable results. I will leave you now and get some sleep. It is understood that you are to come home when you please; hereafter, I will go to bed."
Monsieur Vermoncey left the room, and Albert threw himself on his couch.
"My father is the best of men," he thought; "but, after all, to do what he has done was perhaps the only way to make me behave myself. Yes, this kindness, which nothing wearies, and which leads him, instead of heaping reproaches on me, to pay the price of my follies again—this touching kindness makes me realize all the wickedness of my conduct much more keenly than sermons and harsh treatment would do. I have squandered all my mother's property in such a short time! I absolutely must reform, for I do not propose that my father shall straiten himself for me; and that is what will happen if I continue to lead the life I have been leading. For I know him; he could never bear to see me in embarrassed circumstances; he would subject himself to them, to extricate me. So it is definitely decided, I am to turn virtuous. First of all, I will not play cards any more;then, I will not associate with Célestin quite so much; the more I think of it, the more I am inclined to believe that my father is not very far out of the way in his opinion of him. I have noticed several things—at all events, I will be on my guard. Now, I will think of nothing but my good fortune for to-day. Madame Baldimer has consented to receive me. Strange woman! I am dead in love with her. But is it really love that I feel for her? Let us see: if, instead of resisting me as she has done ever since I began to be attentive to her, she had yielded to me after a feeble resistance, would not my love have died out long ago? I don't know what to answer. It seems to me that it would not—and yet—on reflection—— But what's the use? Let us try at first to triumph. In this affair, at all events, my fortune is in no danger. Madame Baldimer is rich—that is to say, she seems to be. She is a widow, consequently her own mistress—no husband to deceive, or to stand in fear of. I am sure that my father himself would approve of this liaison."
Having passed some time in such reflections as these, Albert fell asleep on his couch. When he woke, it was nearly noon, and his appointment was for one o'clock. He dressed in haste, but with great care, because he desired to maintain his reputation as one of the leading dandies of the capital; then, when his costume was complete, he sallied forth, took a cab, and was driven to Madame Baldimer's house on Rue Neuve-Vivienne.
Let us now make the acquaintance of this lady, with whom Albert was so madly in love, and with whom his friend Célestin maintained a correspondence of which he knew nothing.
Madame Baldimer was twenty-eight years of age. Although she was very beautiful, she appeared fully as old as that, because her features, faultless and regular as they were, were somewhat pronounced and stern; because there was in her expression a touch of masculinity, of intelligence superior to vulgar weaknesses, and the signs of a firm and resolute will.
Tall, with a superb figure, of lithe and graceful carriage—which is rare in very tall women;—great black eyes full of fire, hair as black as jet, a shapely mouth with perfect teeth, sometimes ironical in expression, sometimes scornful, and sometimes fascinating beyond words; a white skin slightly lacking in lustre, a beautiful arm, a lovely hand, but a very long, very broad, and very flat foot,—such was Madame Baldimer. She always wore extremely long dresses, in order to hide that portion of her person which did not harmonize with the beauty of her face and her body.
Madame Baldimer lived on Rue Neuve-Vivienne, in a suite of rooms worthy of apetite-maîtresseupon whom fortune has lavished its favors. There she had assembled everything that could gratify the taste of the mostexacting of women: furniture of priceless woods, bronzes, pictures, porcelain, statuettes, knickknacks, curiosities—nothing had been overlooked; Madame Baldimer's rooms contained all that the world could provide in the way of dainty, graceful, and sumptuous objects. It was a delicious haven of repose, where the feet rested on naught but soft carpets, where one breathed an atmosphere heavy with perfumes and flowers, where, in a word, it seemed that the aim had been to assemble whatever was best adapted to seduce the mind, the eye, and the senses.
It was not the first time that young Vermoncey had called upon Madame Baldimer; after meeting her in society, fascinated by her beauty, he had insistently craved the favor of being permitted to pay his court to her; and that favor had been granted with a readiness that led him to hope for the speedy triumph of his passion. But he had been disappointed; the lovely widow, who had appeared to be flattered at first by the effect her charms produced upon Albert, had received coldly enough the burning declaration which the young man was not slow in addressing to her; without absolutely spurning him, she had given him but little hope. Sometimes stern, sometimes merry, scornful or melancholy, Madame Baldimer's conduct toward Albert was that of a coquette who seeks to amuse herself at the expense of the man she has subjugated, or who does not feel sufficiently assured of her conquest, and, before surrendering, desires, by all possible means, to inflame and strengthen the sentiment she has inspired.
Discouraged, and at times disgusted by the non-success of his sighs, Albert swore to think no more of the fair American, which was the name by which Madame Baldimer was commonly designated in society. In his endeavorto forget her, he ceased to go where he was likely to meet her, in society or at her favorite places of amusement. But just as his resolution was beginning to bear fruit, and his common sense to triumph over his passion, he was sure to meet Madame Baldimer somewhere, at the theatre perhaps, at a concert, or wherever he happened to walk. It seemed that some evil genius kept her informed of his most trivial acts, and sent her upon his traces, in order to make him forget his resolution. The lovely creature exerted every means of seduction in her power to bring back to her feet the man who was struggling to free himself from her empire; and when he saw Madame Baldimer again, Albert speedily forgot her coquetry, and returned to her side more in love than ever, and always flattering himself that he was to be more fortunate in his suit.
But for some time past, Albert's vexation at his failure to triumph over the fair American had been intensified by the torments of jealousy; for he was not the only man whom Madame Baldimer's charms had fascinated; and as she was a flirt, she welcomed the homage of several other young men with as much favor as his. Latterly, a wealthy foreigner, a Swede, had joined the ranks of her adorers; this gentleman, one Count Dahlborne, was exceedingly ugly; he was very tall and stiff, with large, glassy eyes, and a red beard and moustache which made his aspect almost repulsive, and were ill adapted to attract apetite-maîtresse; and yet, whether from eccentricity or caprice, Madame Baldimer had seemed for some little time to take more pleasure in the Swedish count's society than in that of any other aspirant to her favor.
Albert, angry beyond measure, had sworn once more to cease to think of that woman who made a playthingof his love; and affairs were at that stage when, on the preceding evening, he and his friends had spied the fair American in a littlecitadine, driving along the boulevard. We have seen what followed. Unable to control the passion which dominated him, Albert wrote to Madame Baldimer, imploring her to accord him a tête-à-tête, and swearing that she would never see him again if she refused. The reply was laconic, but favorable. "Come at one o'clock to-morrow," said the note which he had received from the lovely widow, and which had made him so happy.
Let us accompany him now to the lady's abode, where he arrived at the hour mentioned in the note.
A maid ushered the young man into a small salon furnished with all the dainty coquetry of a boudoir. Enveloped in an ample blouse of white muslin, gathered about her waist by a gold cord, Madame Baldimer sat, or rather half reclined, on a divan. Her beautiful black hair was her only head-dress, but the novel and original fashion in which it was arranged, and the elegant simplicity of her dress, which heightened her charms—everything combined to impart to her person something which would have vanquished the most insensible of men, and Albert was very far from that.
At sight of the person she expected, and of whose passionate admiration of her beauty she was well aware, Madame Baldimer's eyes gleamed, and her face lighted up with a peculiar expression. Was it pleasure, love, or simple coquetry? One must needs have been a talented physiognomist to divine what was taking place in that woman's heart.
Albert bowed gracefully, and, at a sign from her, took his seat by her side.
"I trust that I shall hear no further complaints from you," said Madame Baldimer, with a smile; "I have given you this rendezvous—the tête-à-tête for which you asked me. Do you know that that is a very great favor?"
"Do you imagine, madame, that I am not profoundly conscious of its value; do you already repent of having afforded me so very great a pleasure?"
"I never repent of what I have done, for I always reflect before acting; and I realize all the consequences of what I accord, of what I promise."
"Then you give me leave to love you and to tell you so, to hope that you will share my sentiments? for all that is the natural consequence of this priceless interview which you have deigned to grant me."
"Oh! gently, gently, Monsieur Albert; you go too fast. Love me, if you will; I do not forbid you—far from it; but I must be absolutely certain of your love, I must be convinced that it is too great to recoil before any obstacle—any sacrifice—before I make up my mind to yield to it."
"Oh! madame, are you not certain of the power of your charms, of the boundless influence you exert over me? What proof must you have, in order to believe in my love? Speak, command!—I am prepared to obey."
Madame Baldimer gazed earnestly at Albert, but in that searching gaze there was no trace of tenderness, nothing to indicate that it came from the heart. The young man was almost frightened by the persistent stare of those two great black eyes; he would have preferred a little confusion and embarrassment, some slight emotion, a sigh—in a word, some one of those things which indicate that the moment of avowal, of surrender, is at hand;and Madame Baldimer's expression conveyed no such indication.
"You have loved very often, have you not?" murmured the lovely widow at last.
"So I thought until I knew you, but I feel now that I never really loved before I saw you."
"Oh, yes! a man always says that to the last woman to whom he pays court. But I have been told that you have been guilty of a great many follies for your mistresses."
"Follies do not necessarily denote love."
"Sometimes they do. And suppose I wanted you to do something of the sort for me——"
"Why, I should be only too happy, if it were a means of making myself agreeable to you."
"Ah! you do not know me, you see. I am very peculiar. I want the man who loves me to gratify all my tastes, all my whims; to divine them himself; I do not understand the love that hesitates before a desire of the loved one. If I had been a man, I would have thrown myself into the water, into the flames, to prove my love for a woman! I would have defied all dangers, challenged all my rivals—in short, I would have turned the world upside down, aye, and committed crimes, if she had asked me to."
Albert, who was at a loss to understand the purport of her remarks, looked at her with a smile, saying:
"Have you some little crime you would like me to commit? or would you like me to jump into the water?"
Madame Baldimer pressed her lips together impatiently, as she replied:
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, what will you say next? I should be very sorry, indeed, if the slightest accidentshould happen to you on my account. Really, I don't know why I said that. I don't always consider what I say."
"But you consider what is said to you, surely?" rejoined Albert, taking her hand.
She smiled, and seemed to reflect for a moment.
"Where do you live now?" she asked. "Is it true that you have moved?"
"No, madame; I am still in the same house."
"And you live with your father, I believe?"
"On the same landing."
"For a young man who likes to do foolish things, it must be a little burdensome sometimes to have such a neighbor."
"Oh! no, madame; I am my own master; I do what I choose; my father does not interfere with me in any way; he is so kind to me!"
"Ah! he loves you very dearly, does he?"
"Yes, I cannot doubt it. And it is quite natural, as I am the only one left of a numerous family."
"What! has he no other child?"
"I had two brothers and a sister—and I alone am left."
Madame Baldimer let her head fall upon her breast, and seemed lost in thought.
"But we are talking of very serious subjects," said Albert, after a pause; "whereas I had no purpose to speak of anything but my love. Tell me, do you not love me a little?"
Madame Baldimer made no reply, but she allowed her hand to be pressed, heaved a sigh, and turned her eyes away. The young man was overjoyed; he thought that his love was beginning to touch the heart that he burned to subjugate, and he was about to put to his lips thehand that he held in his, when Madame Baldimer rose abruptly and began to pace the floor.
"Did you see Madame Plays at Count Dahlborne's last reception?" she asked, in a very vivacious tone. "She wore the sweetest cashmere; it fairly turned my head; so much so, that I dreamed of it, and I think of it all the time. There's one just like it at Delille's. They are the handsomest shawls there are in Paris to-day. I was tempted for a moment to buy it; but it costs too much; and one would be very foolish to yield to all one's fancies."
Albert was utterly disconcerted. At the very moment when he thought that she was about to respond to his loving protestations, she began to talk about cashmeres! That abrupt sally so bewildered him that he gazed at Madame Baldimer in blank amazement, and did not know what to reply.
She returned to her seat on the divan, and continued in a most amiable tone:
"Pardon me; here I am talking about clothes, now; I am very frivolous, am I not?"
"You are charming always—if only you would be a little more sentimental! When I speak of my love, you change the subject."
"Why, no—for that Madame Plays has been your mistress, has she not?"
"No, I give you my word of honor."
"Come, come, don't lie about it! As if one could not detect such things at once, however little one knows the world! Besides, Madame Plays made no secret of it—quite the contrary; that husband of hers is so obliging!"
"For heaven's sake, let us drop Madame Plays! I did not ask for a tête-à-tête with you, to talk about her!"
"I fancy not. But her shawl is so pretty—and I thought that someone said that you gave it to her."
"No, indeed! that is not true!"
"You won't admit it, of course—such a beautiful present! Were you so very much in love with that woman?"
"Once more, madame, I assure you that you are mistaken."
"Very well—it is possible; I am willing to believe you. But, oh! what a stunning shawl that is!"
Albert said nothing more. A thousand thoughts passed through his mind, and his brow began to darken. Madame Baldimer, noticing it, became more vivacious, more amiable, more tender, than ever; one would have said that she feared that the passion she had aroused might disappear, and that she was exerting herself to the utmost to prevent Albert's love from escaping her. He was altogether bewildered by the cajoleries which she lavished upon him; his hope that his flame was at last shared awoke to new life; indeed, Madame Baldimer's conduct fully justified that hope.
But at that moment the maid appeared in the doorway.
"Monsieur le Comte Dahlborne wishes to know if he may pay his respects to madame?" she said.
"Why, of course; show him in," replied Madame Baldimer, with an air of satisfaction; while Albert, whose features contracted when he heard the count's name, exclaimed angrily:
"What! you propose to receive that foreigner? And I hoped that I was to enjoy a tête-à-tête with you!"
"Have we not time enough to see each other again? The count was told that I was in; to refuse to receive him would be discourteous."
"Ah! madame, if you had taken any pleasure in hearing me speak of my love——"
"I do—but the world insists upon the observance of certain proprieties which we cannot disregard. Besides, this foreigner is so gallant——"
"Too gallant with you, in my opinion, and his frequent visits——"
"Hush, here he is!"
Count Dahlborne entered the salon, with the stiff, formal, pretentious air which he always maintained. He had several decorations in his buttonhole, and all the manners of a person of good breeding; but his long, surly face, even when he tried to be affable, seemed destined to put pleasure and love to flight. However, Madame Baldimer greeted him with a charming smile; he kissed her hand, bowed solemnly to Albert, and seated himself in an armchair, like a wooden man moved by springs.
"It is very good of you, monsieur le comte, to think of coming to see me," said the pretty widow, mincingly.
The Swede bowed, and replied with the utmost seriousness:
"Oh! I think of it all the time."
"You gentlemen who are in diplomacy, in politics, have very little time to give to the ladies; so that they should be highly flattered when it occurs to you to give a thought to them."
"Oh! I give many thoughts to them."
Albert could hardly restrain a smile at the Swede's phlegm and his laconic utterances, and he did not say a word, being curious to see if his conversation would continue in the same tone. But Madame Baldimer was too shrewd not to try to make the count talk more freely. She addressed him again.
"How did you like the last opéra-comique? We met there the night before last, you know."
"I don't remember it at all," replied Monsieur Dahlborne, after apparently trying to recall the incident.
"I should judge, then, that you didn't enjoy it very much."
The Swede made no reply, but felt in his coat pocket and produced a superb fan of some rare and valuable wood, beautifully carved, and enriched with inlaid work. He presented it to Madame Baldimer, saying:
"I broke yours at the theatre; will you allow me to replace it?"
The fair American took the fan and gazed at it with an enraptured expression.
"Oh! really, Monsieur Dahlborne," she cried, "this is too beautiful. I don't know whether I ought to accept it; it is simply magnificent! What workmanship! what exquisite finish! it is perfectly lovely! I cannot take it in exchange for the one I had."
"Then I will break this one too, if you give it back to me."
"Really, such gallantry—it puts all our Parisian gentlemen to the blush.—Look, Monsieur Vermoncey, isn't this a wonderfully lovely fan?"
Albert, whose face had worn a pronounced frown ever since the count presented the fan, barely glanced at it as he replied:
"I know very little about that sort of thing."
"It is impossible to imagine anything in better taste! Well, Monsieur Dahlborne, I will keep it; for it would really be too bad for you to break it."
"In that case, I am very glad that I broke the other," said the Swede, with a bow.
Albert found it difficult to restrain his vexation and anger; he could not keep his feet still, and seemed to be boiling on his chair. The pretty widow, who seemed to take great delight in the young man's jealousy and wrath, and who acted as if she desired to add to his misery, handed the fan to him again, saying:
"Pray look at it, monsieur, and admit that you have never seen anything so pretty and so refined."
This time the young man took the fan in his hands, held it up in the air, opened it as if to examine it more closely, then let it fall on the corner of his chair, whence it dropped to the floor. The dainty thing was too frail, too delicate, to resist that twofold fall, and it broke in several pieces.
Madame Baldimer gave a little shriek, which did not, however, indicate intense regret; indeed, it was possible that she expected that event and had looked forward to it. Count Dahlborne contented himself with picking up the pieces of the fan, which he coolly placed in his pocket.
"There are others," he said; "prettier ones than that, perhaps; I shall have the pleasure of bringing you one."
Albert's irritation increased apace; he flattered himself that by breaking the fan he would vex Madame Baldimer and anger the Swede—in short, he hoped for a scene, a quarrel; but the foreigner's imperturbable tranquillity disappointed his hope; he saw that his awkwardness—or malice, as they chose to take it—was thrown away.
Madame Baldimer addressed no reproach to him; she simply said:
"We all have our unlucky days."
Then she resumed her conversation with the count, who continued to answer as laconically as before; in fact,she carried on the conversation practically alone, with an occasional ironical smile at her young adorer.
Albert paid no heed to what was being said, and he answered incoherently such remarks as were addressed to him; but he was determined not to abandon the field to the Swede, and not to go away so long as that gentleman stayed. For his part, the noble foreigner seemed not at all disposed to take his leave, although he did not appear to be enjoying himself overmuch.
Madame Baldimer probably divined the secret thoughts of her two suitors; and after entertaining them, as we have described, for some time, she herself rose and said:
"Excuse me for leaving you, messieurs; but I am going into the country for a few days, and I must make my toilet; you understand that, for a lady, that is too important a matter not to require a great deal of time."
The visitors understood that they must go. Both rose, and both took leave of the young woman. The Swede kissed her hand with much gravity; Albert contented himself with pressing it hard, saying under his breath:
"I hope to see you immediately after your return to Paris."
"I count upon it," replied Madame Baldimer, aloud. "I will write you as soon as I return."
The two rivals went downstairs together; on reaching the street, they saluted without a word.
Albert stood and looked after the count as he walked away, and was strongly tempted to go up to Madame Baldimer again; but he changed his mind and went home.
"To go back now," he said to himself, "would be a mistake. What should I say? I broke that fan; she saw that I did it in anger, and she didn't reprove me. But I must make that up to her. I have deprived herof one present, so I owe her another. That cashmere she spoke about is very expensive, I suppose, but no matter! It shall not be said that a Swede was more gallant than I. And yet—I don't know—but it seems to me that that woman doesn't love me;—and I thought that her acquaintance would cost me nothing! Ah! I hoped that she would be more amiable and less coquettish. I should do very well to forget Madame Baldimer—I know that. Why am I so bent upon triumphing over her? Oh! vanity, vanity!"
Sans-Cravate had quickened his pace in order to reach Rue du Temple, into which he thought that he had seen Bastringuette turn. When he walked at his ordinary gait, he moved almost as rapidly as a cab; so that, as may be imagined, his double-quick step was likely to tire anybody who attempted to keep up with him.
Jean Ficelle was compelled to run, in order not to lose sight of his comrade. From time to time, he called out to him:
"Stop a minute, won't you! I can't keep up with you; do you want to see my spleen swell up like a balloon?Sacrédié!you ought to be a runner; I believe you could beat the horses on the Champ de Mars!"
Sans-Cravate reached Rue de la Corderie without catching another glimpse of the woman he had thought was Bastringuette. There he halted at last.
"It's mighty lucky," panted Jean Ficelle. "I was just going to give out; on my word, I was blowing like a cab horse!"
"I don't see that woman," said Sans-Cravate; "it's very strange! Where the devil has she gone to?"
"Was it really Bastringuette that you saw turn into this street? You ain't sure of it, are you?"
"No."
"What are we going to do now?"
"As long as we're in the Marais, let's go to Rue Barbette, where my traitor's cousin lives."
"All right, let's inspect the Marais, I'm willing; perhaps we may meet somebody else. But we don't need to run any more, that don't help us any. Let's walk along quiet now, arm in arm."
"Did I run just now?"
"Oh, no! of course not! not any faster than a steam engine. I'm willing to go with you and help you in your search; for I'm your friend—and when anyone insults you, d'ye see, it makes me madder than if it was me. Bless my soul! a friend's a friend—that's enough for me. But that's no reason for your breaking my wind. Besides, you know, you can find things out much better by going slow than by running like a bullet. Look you, I'll give you a comparison. Have you ever been on the railroad?"
"Yes; I went to Saint-Germain once, with Bastringuette."
"Well, what did you see, what did you notice on the way?"
"How do you suppose a man can notice anything when he's going like the wind?"
"Exactly—that's what I'm coming at. That's like you—just now. How do you expect to see anything orfind out anything in the street, when you're running like a horse with the bit between his teeth?"
"I believe you're right; give me your arm, and we'll go slowly about our search in the Marais."
The Marais is the oldest quarter of Paris, next to the Cité; despite the numerous changes, enlargements, and improvements which have been made in the capital, the Marais has retained its primitive aspect more nearly than any other quarter. There we can still find a large number of the old houses and mansions occupied by our ancestors. It is not surprising, therefore, that, as we stroll through that quarter, our imagination carries us back several centuries, and our memory recalls all those deeds of the olden time with which our childhood was entertained.
For instance, if you have studied or read our history ever so little, you cannot pass through Rue des Tournelles without recalling the fact that one of the king's palaces once stood on that street; that Henri II caused lists to be constructed, reaching from the Bastille to the Palais des Tournelles, for the tourney in which he received his death wound; that it was in front of the Bastille that the celebrated duel took place in the year 1578, between Quélus, Livarot, and Maugiron on the one side, and Ribérac, Schomberg, and D'Entragues on the other. They fought at five o'clock in the morning; Maugiron and Schomberg, who were less than twenty years old, were killed on the spot; Ribérac and Quélus died of their wounds shortly after. At that time, the rage for duelling was carried to such a pitch that it not infrequently happened that a father acted as his son's second. Still, those were the days which are called, by common consent, thegood old time.
If you walk through Rue Sainte-Avoye, you look for the Hôtel de Mesmes, where lived Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, an illustrious old man, who was mortally wounded, at the age of seventy-four, at the battle of Saint-Denis, after unhorsing by a blow with the hilt of his sword (the blade had been broken during the battle) the man who summoned him to surrender.
Rue Barbette recalls Isabel of Bavaria, that queen whom France holds in no very kindly remembrance. She had a house there, which she called herpetit séjour. It was thither that she generally retired during the paroxysms of the malady of her husband, Charles VI; a custom which does not speak highly for her wifely affection; a good bourgeoise would have stayed with her husband, to take care of him and nurse him. But she was a queen—and this happened in the good old time.
Pass through Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and you will be conscious of a thrill of terror as you recall the murderous attack upon the Connétable de Clisson by Pierre de Craon. For it was on the corner of that street that the latter lay in hiding on the night of June 13, 1391. He was at the head of a number of cutthroats, lying in wait for him whose death he had sworn to compass. Although he had no other weapon than a small knife, the constable used it with such wonderful address and vigor that he did not die of his wounds.
If you visit Rue des Lions, your eyes will seek the buildings in which the king's lions were confined, and your memory will at once recall the adventure of the Chevalier de Lorges. While François I was amusing himself by watching his lions at play, a lady dropped her glove in the arena, and said to De Lorges:
"If you would have me believe in your love, go fetch my glove."
The chevalier went down into the arena, picked up the glove from the midst of the lions, returned to his place, threw the glove in the lady's face, and never spoke to her again. That, too, happened in the good old time. To-day, our ladies do not exact such proofs of affection; with us, gallantry is less savage, and we might even apply to it what someone has said of music:Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.
Close at hand is Rue des Nonaindières, formerly Rue des Nonains d'Hière, because the abbey of the village of Hière still owned several estates on that street. That was the abbey where the use of eggs was not permitted until the fourteenth century; before that time, they were considered too great a delicacy for nuns.
Then there is Rue Saint-Paul, which cannot fail to remind you of the famous mansion erected by Charles V. With its gardens, it occupied all the space between Rue Saint-Antoine and the river, from the city moat to the church of the parish of Saint-Paul. In those days, the houses in which kings dwelt were always flanked by huge towers, and the gardens planted with fruit trees and vines. Rue Beautrellis and Rue de la Cerisaye took their names respectively from a beautiful trellis and from a plantation of cherry trees, both of which were within the confines of the gardens of the Hôtel Saint-Paul. We have become more luxurious than our kings of the olden time, for now no petty banker will have anything but ornamental trees and shrubs in his park; he would blush to have you find a plum tree or an apricot tree there.
On Rue des Trois Pavillons, one's thoughts inevitably turn to the fair Diane de Poitiers, whom Henri II madeDuchesse de Valentinois. That street once bore her name, because she lived there; I cannot tell you why they rechristened it, but, for my part, I prefer the name of a pretty woman to Trois Pavillons.
Lastly, there is the Vieille Rue du Temple. Your heart contracts as you recall the assassination of the Duc d'Orléans on that street, one evening in the month of November, 1407, near a small house called the Image de Notre-Dame.
But we have dwelt long enough on the memories evoked by that ancient quarter. Although the Marais has retained down to the present day, in some of its streets, a part of its primitive aspect, it has undergone numerous changes; new, broad, and airy streets and elegant, even coquettish, houses have risen on the sites of the gloomy Gothic structures of our ancestors. As for the people of that quarter, they bear no resemblance whatever to the Parisians who lived in the Marais at the time of which we have been evoking the memory. Morals, customs, manners, everything is changed, and we may well congratulate our contemporaries that it is so; for, as we have seen, duels, murders, and ambuscades are the subjects of most of the legends that have come down to us. We may be less chivalrous, but, while we are no less brave, we are more light-hearted, more amiable, and much less treacherous than our forbears of the good old time.
To-day, the people of the Marais dress almost as well as those of the Chaussée d'Antin; there are no districts in Paris now that are behind the times in respect to fashions, but everybody cannot or does not choose to follow them. A dandy of Rue Saint-Louis may make as fine a show as he of Boulevard des Italiens, especially as there is nothing to prevent their having the same tailor.
We ought to say, however, that there is something more of the patriarchal rigidity of manners to be observed in the Marais than in other quarters of the capital. The people there close their shops a little earlier, and do not sit up quite so late as in the centre of the city; the young women are more submissive in their demeanor toward their parents, the young men do not as yet venture to appear in a salon when they exhale an odor of pipe or cigar. But these shades of difference are very slight, and, doubtless, will very soon blend with the general color.
The two messengers walked arm in arm. Sans-Cravate seemed deep in thought; he did not speak, but looked carefully on all sides, scrutinizing everybody who passed; he even tried to look into the shops; in every woman that he saw he fancied that he recognized Bastringuette, whom he had ceased to love, as he believed, but of whom he constantly thought. That is a very poor way of ceasing to love a person.
Jean Ficelle whistled and sang and smoked, and tried to enliven his comrade. But he barely replied, and often without rhyme or reason, which proved that he was not listening. Jean Ficelle tried frequently to stop him. When they passed a wine shop, he would say:
"Shan't we go in and take a glass? the glass of friendship! no one refuses that."
But Sans-Cravate refused; he walked on, saying:
"Later—in a minute—I don't want to drink now."
"You're getting to be a devilish queer kind of a friend," growled Jean Ficelle; "you make me travel all over Paris dry—do you want me to catch the pip, like a turkey?"
At last they reached Rue Barbette, and Sans-Cravate pointed out to his comrade a small fruit shop at some little distance.
"That's where Bastringuette's cousin lives."
"That one-eyed fruit stall?"
"To be sure, as she keeps it."
"Well, let's go in and see if your girl's there."
"I wouldn't like to have her think I'm watching her. Do you go by alone, and look in; the shop is very small, and you can easily see all the people that are in it; I'll wait here for you."
"All right. I'll be skirmisher."
He left Sans-Cravate standing at the entrance of a passageway, and walked toward the fruit stall at a mincing gait. He passed the shop twice, looking in both times, then returned to Sans-Cravate.
"There's no more Bastringuette than there is crabs in the fruit store," he said. "Your doll ain't there."
"Perhaps you didn't look closely."
"Oh! yes, I did; it ain't hard to do. There's nobody there except the proprietor, and an old woman who wants carrots, I fancy, for she was hauling 'em all over."
"I want to see for myself."
And Sans-Cravate walked toward the fruit stall, in his turn. Jean Ficelle followed him, still whistling. When they had passed the shop, Sans-Cravate stopped, and muttered with a distressed expression:
"She ain't there!"
"Pardieu! I knew it. I've got eyes like a falcon, I have. But I don't see what made you think Bastringuette was there. Your wench wouldn't have rigged herself out in her prettiest togs to go to a paltry shop where they sell burned onions and old Brie cheese. When a woman dresses up, it means that she's going to meet a man she wants to catch; you don't need to be a chemist to see that."
"Yes, yes, you are right."
"Oh! I know the world, my boy. Sometimes I don't say nothing, but I think a lot. But what's to hinder your going into the shop and asking if Bastringuette's been there to-day?"
"No; she'd find out that I'd been looking for her; she'd think that I care what she does. I won't do it."
"It seems to me, she wouldn't be far out of the way if she thought that."
"I tell you, I don't love her any more—I hate her; but I'd like to catch her with the other one, just so's to say: 'You're a pair of curs, and I despise you!'—and that's all. I tell you, Jean Ficelle, no woman will ever be anything to me after this; they're too treacherous; I won't have any more mistresses, I swear!"
"Don't swear—that's nonsense! Look you, I'll give you another comparison: when a woman has a pretty cat, she always says when she's patting him and kissing him: 'If I lose this one, I swear I'll never have another.'—But what happens? her cat dies or gets lost, and in a little while she's sure to get another one, and says just the same about him that she did about the first one. Now, you see, women say just the same thing about their lovers that they do about their cats. 'If this one leaves me, I'll never have another.'—And when their lover leaves 'em, they always take another, just as they do a cat. Well! when a man says: 'I won't have any more mistresses, because mine has played tricks on me,' it's just the same story."
"But I have some character, some strength of will!" cried Sans-Cravate; "and to prove that I don't mean to think of Bastringuette any more, I'm going to drink and gamble and enjoy myself—go on a spree with my friends."
"Well, well! good enough! that's what I call talking! Come along, I'll take you to the rendezvous of theFrancs-Lapins. You'll find some friends there you can depend on. Have you got any cash?"
"Yes, I still have six or seven francs left of what Monsieur Albert gave me last night."
"We must spend 'em! Anyway, we can't do any more work to-day; it's too late, and you need amusement, and so do I. Forward—and as we go along, I'll teach you a drinking song that goes to the tune ofPartant pour la Syrie, with an accompaniment of tongs beating a kettle; it has a fine effect at dessert."
Sans-Cravate took his companion's arm. It was evident that he was doing his utmost to overcome his chagrin and to appear hilarious. Jean Ficelle, who believed himself to be an excellent singer, had already begun the song with which he proposed to entertain his friend, when, as they turned out of Rue Barbette into Vieille Rue du Temple, a young man, who wore a round hat, and whose dress, while not fashionable, was that of a respectable bourgeois, walked rapidly by them. He seemed much preoccupied, and did not notice the two messengers. But they looked at him and recognized him, and Jean Ficelle triumphantly exclaimed:
"Well! what did I tell you? Was I mistaken? You've seen him yourself. That was Paul, dressed like a swell."
"Yes, it was him, that's sure! I can't get over it!"
"And do you see how proud he is when he's dressed up like that? he passed close to us, and pretended not to know us. What does it all mean? is that a messenger's dress? Anyone would swear he was a drummer. You see yourself that there's something crooked, some mystery."
Sans-Cravate was not listening, for he had run after Paul; although the younger man walked very rapidly, Sans-Cravate soon overtook and passed him; then, planting himself in front of him, he barred his passage, saying in a bantering tone which ill concealed his anger:
"Where are you going so fast?Bigre!seems to me, you're dressed mighty fine for a messenger who stands on the street corner to do errands."
Paul was thunderstruck when he recognized Sans-Cravate; but he strove to overcome his annoyance, and replied:
"I am not doing errands to-day, and when a man isn't working he is free to dress as he pleases."
"That may be! but, still, nobody ever meets us in such a rig, not even on Sunday."
"No," said Jean Ficelle, who had overtaken his two confrères, and joined in the conversation with a bantering leer; "no! we ain't so stylish as that! Gad! what a swell! Paul must have some other trade that pays better than ours, to wear such togs! And think how stingy he is with us, never willing to treat his friends to a glass!"
"I do what I choose! I am not accountable to anyone for my actions," retorted Paul, with an angry glance at Jean Ficelle; "I don't play the spy on other people, and I care mighty little what is thought of me by people who had better learn to behave themselves, first of all!"
With that, Paul hurried away, while the two messengers looked at each other with a disappointed expression.
"What an insolent brat he is, the little foundling!" cried Jean Ficelle; "don't that deserve a hiding—when a puppy without any father or mother puts on airs like that? He insulted you again."
"Me?" said Sans-Cravate, in surprise; "how did he insult me, I'd like to know?"
"Didn't you hear what he said: 'There are people who had better learn how to behave themselves before they spy on other people?'—He looked at you when he said that."
"I thought you was the one he was looking at."
"Oh, no! He spotted you."
"Well, one thing's certain, and that is that Paul isn't with Bastringuette, and that I was wrong to think they were together."
Sans-Cravate seemed less distressed; it was evident that his jealousy had partly disappeared. But Jean Ficelle rejoined, with a shrug:
"They ain't together now—that's true. But what is there to prove that they didn't separate just now? Perhaps Bastringuette ain't so far away. I have my ideas. See, I'll give you a comparison: it's like the way a cat insists on staying in a garret because he smells mice there; it's no use to try to drive him out——"
"Sacrédié!Jean Ficelle, you tire me with your comparisons! Come, let's go and see theFrancs-Lapins; we are going to spree it a bit, you know. I'm all ready."
Instead of complying, Jean Ficelle pointed to a house with a passage, on the left, and said:
"That's where our fine gentleman came from; and perhaps we might be able to find out where he'd been."
"You think Paul came out of that house, you say?" said Sans-Cravate, walking in that direction.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure of it. I was looking straight ahead, and there was no one coming. And all of a sudden someone came out of that passage, and it was him."
Sans-Cravate stopped in front of the house, and finally decided to enter the passageway, which was rather dark,with no sign of a concierge's quarters. Jean Ficelle followed his comrade, and, after examining the passage for a moment, they walked toward a dark, winding staircase at the rear.
"Shall we go up?" said Jean Ficelle.
"Where shall we go? Who shall we ask for?"
"Dame!I don't know. But we can act as if we'd made a mistake. We'll ask for a midwife for a woman who's in a great hurry for one. How's that for a game! Or we can ask if Monsieur Paul, ex-messenger, lives in the house."
"No, no!" cried Sans-Cravate, going back into the street. "After all, Paul was right when he said we ought not to play the spy on him, that he's free to do what he pleases. I have a feeling that it's a mean business to try to find out people's secrets. I don't like the job at all. Let's go."
Jean Ficelle said no more, but followed his comrade, in evident ill humor, turning his head every minute to look at the house they had just left. Suddenly he seized Sans-Cravate, who was a little ahead of him, by the arm, and exclaimed in a shrill voice:
"Look! there you have Paul's secret—coming out of that passageway. Ah! I'd have bet my life on it!"
Sans-Cravate turned, and saw Bastringuette come out of the house they had just left and turn into Rue Barbette. The tall girl walked quite slowly, and stopped for a moment to take out her handkerchief and wipe her eyes, as if she had been crying; then she walked on.
Sans-Cravate had ample time to examine her; there was no doubt that it was she. He even recognized the silk handkerchief she took from her pocket, for it was a present he had given her. He could not take his eyesfrom his mistress; his face flushed, and his whole frame shook convulsively.
"It's her," he muttered; "in the same house with him. There's no mystery now—they were together, that's clear as day, the traitors! and, of course, to-day ain't the first time they've met there!"
He started to run after Bastringuette, who had not seen him; and Jean Ficelle, who hoped there would be a scene, rubbed his hands and smiled to himself. But his hope was soon crushed; Sans-Cravate stopped, making a mighty effort to restrain his passion, and retraced his steps.
"No," he said, "I won't go after her; for I might forget myself. When I'm angry, I don't know what I'm doing, and I might do some harm. No; let's go in the other direction!"
"Pardieu! suppose you did give her a beating—a jade that deceived you—I don't see where there'd be any great harm done! Why shouldn't you take that little satisfaction?"
But Sans-Cravate was not listening; he had walked away, and was already at some distance. Jean Ficelle finally decided to follow him, saying to himself:
"Never mind; he's out for good with his wench, and I'm quite sure the young fellow will get what he deserves, when there's a good chance. Then Sans-Cravate will consent to come and play a little game with his friends, and I'll fleece him attable-basseorbiribi."