"Sacrédié!" ejaculated Tobie, as soon as he could speak; "what an outrage! to give me a pipe filled with powder! That's a mighty poor joke, messieurs! it might have killed me! I think very highly of Ali Pacha's narghile!"
Balivan had much difficulty in pacifying the little man, and making him understand that when he filled the pipe he was thinking of something else, which prevented his noticing what he filled it with. Tobie was beginning to recover from his fright, and the game of bouillotte was in progress once more, when shrill cries were heard in the direction of the kitchen, and Balivan recognized his maid-servant's voice.
"Has Crevette also been trying to smoke one of Ali Pacha's pipes?" said Mouillot.
"Let us go and see what the trouble is!"
"Let us hasten to succor the Burgundian!"
All the young men hurried after Balivan, Tobie alone excepted; he took advantage of the confusion to leave the house, overjoyed to carry away the change for his olive.
Meanwhile, the painter had reached the kitchen, where he found no one; thence he passed into a small, dark room, where his servant slept, and there he discovered Mademoiselle Crevette, with no other clothing than the one garment which Englishwomen blush to name, holding the magnetizer Dupétrain down on the floor, and pounding him vigorously with her fist, shouting the while:
"Ah! you villain! just look at this joker! My faith! that was a fine idea of his! to come into my room while I was asleep, to do—I don't know what! Luckily, I was only asleep with one eye, and I stopped him just whenhe'd made up his mind I was too warm, I suppose, for he was pulling off my bedclothes."
They succeeded, not without difficulty, in rescuing Dupétrain from the Burgundian, who would have liked to go on beating him; but when she realized that she was standing before all those young men in her chemise, she suddenly jumped back toward her bed; being, however, a little heavy for gymnastic exercises, she fell sidewise on the mattress, thus exposing the roundest part of her person to the assembled company.
"Bravo! magnificent!" they exclaimed, clapping their hands. "Come, Crevette, just one more jump! you do it so well! What a full moon! We shall have a fine day to-morrow!"
The Burgundian was furious; she seized her pitcher and held it up in the air.
"If you don't clear out of my room, I'll throw it at your heads!"
Balivan, who knew that she was quite capable of doing what she threatened, succeeded in pushing them all out of the room, and they returned to the studio.
"Aha! Monsieur Dupétrain," said Mouillot, "you are a sad rake, it seems."
"That's a very neat trick," said the painter; "we thought you had gone home, and you had stolen into my servant's room!"
"He wanted to magnetize her, no doubt."
"Messieurs," said Dupétrain, decidedly embarrassed, "I swear to you that this is nothing of any consequence, and that the Burgundian rustic misapprehended my intentions. For what did I propose to do? simply make an experiment in magnetism on that dull, brutish temperament. I said to myself: 'If I can succeed in putting thatcountrywoman into a trance, what an extraordinary proof it will be of the power of my art!'"
"Yes; and he took off Crevette's bedclothes, so that he could see that dull temperament."
"Messieurs, to put myself in communication with a subject, it is necessary——"
"Enough! we don't want to hear any more. To the card table!"
"Why! someone is missing," said Mouillot.
"That's so. Tobie isn't here. Can he have gone away? It isn't possible."
They searched the studio, thinking that he had hidden, to play a trick on them; but they found that he had really gone.
"Oh! he'd been itching to go for a long while," said Balivan.
"Yes, ever since he changed his fetich."
"That's a very convenient dodge," observed Mouillot; "he had at least four hundred and fifty francs left of the change for his olive, and he's gone off with it.—Varinet, you have a fetich of very doubtful value."
Varinet calmly wrapped the olive in a piece of paper and put it back in his pocket.
"Do you think that that young man is capable of leaving this pledge in my hands?" he said. "I believe that he will come to my house to redeem it."
"Oh! he'll redeem it," said Albert; "I have no doubt of that."
But Célestin shook his head.
"Perhaps he will," he murmured; "but he's quite capable of forgetting his debt, and I fancy you'll have to remind him of it. Don't lose your fetich."
"For my part," said Mouillot, "I wouldn't give three francs for that olive."
The young men resumed their game, after saying good-night to Dupétrain, whom Balivan escorted to the landing, to make sure that he did not mistake his road and return to make another attempt to put his servant in a trance.
For an hour longer, the game was very brisk. At the end of that time, Albert, who had lost twelve hundred francs, threw himself on the couch, saying:
"I've had enough, messieurs; I am going to sleep here till daylight."
The other four young men continued the game for some time. At last, Célestin, who had won largely and had no desire to lose what he had won, pretended that he too was sleepy, and lay down on the divan. Mouillot, Balivan, and Varinet played on for a considerable time, until Balivan, having lost heavily, left the table, saying:
"I am going to bed."
"Now it's between us," said Mouillot to the young man with white eyebrows; "abrûlot."
"What! can two play bouillotte?"
"Oh, yes! and it's very interesting. It's for the one whose turn it is to bet, to speak; if he sees nothing in his hand, he puts in a chip, and the other does the same. It's a game you can play a long while without saying a word, as you pass very often."
Varinet consented to play; but Mouillot, who was decidedly lucky at two-handed bouillotte, and who played a very shrewd game, soon won all his opponent's money; Varinet had nothing left but the olive, and he proposed to stake that; but Mouillot, who was not anxious to win it, preferred to follow the example of the others andtake a little nap. He lay down beside Célestin on the divan.
The young man with white eyebrows reclined in an easy-chair, and soon everybody was asleep in the artist's studio, where the most absolute quiet had succeeded the noisy outbursts of merriment engendered by the fumes of the punch.
After the scene in the wine shop, the habitués had retired one after another, Paul among the first; but before he went away, he had glanced at Sans-Cravate with an expression which bore not the slightest trace of ill humor for the latter's threats; on the contrary, it seemed to suggest the hope that a hand would be offered as a sign of reconciliation. Sans-Cravate apparently hesitated for a moment; but Jean Ficelle whispered in his ear, and he turned away without a word to the young messenger.
Paul slept very little that night; because he was thinking, not of what had happened at the wine shop, but of what he had to do the next morning. The thought that he was going to see Elina, that he was going to pass some time with her, filled his heart with the keenest joy in anticipation. The girl's face was constantly before his eyes; to think about a woman whom one loves is much better than sleeping; waking dreams are often very sweet; for one shapes them according to his own pleasure;while those which come to us during our sleep are not always rose-colored.
The clock had just struck half-past five, when Paul pulled the copper bell knob of the house in which Elina lived with her aunt. Nobody answered the bell, and the young man was obliged to ring twice more; for the concierges of the Chaussée d'Antin do not rise so early as their brethren of the Marais. The door was opened at last by an old fellow, who passed his head, swathed in several cotton nightcaps, through a little, round window, and asked in a wrathful tone:
"Who is it who has the effrontery to ring my bell at this time of day? Who do you want to see? No one's up?"
"Excuse me, monsieur," said Paul; "I am going up to Mademoiselle Elina's, to help her move; and she must be up, for she herself asked me to come at half-past five."
"Bah! this is interesting!" snarled the concierge. "Some of 'em are up at daybreak, others don't go to bed at all, but pass the night playing cards and raising the devil! It was outrageous, the way they acted last night; the noise they made in that dauber's studio. I wonder when they'll turn that fellow out of the house."
Paul did not stay to listen to the concierge's reflections; he had already started upstairs, and he soon reached the door of Madame Vardeine's apartment. He coughed softly, and the door was opened at once, for Elina was already up and waiting for him; perhaps, indeed, she had slept no more than he.
If, gentle reader, you are surprised that a young and pretty dressmaker should have a tender feeling for a mere messenger, you must remember that in Paul's mannersand language there was none of the coarseness generally characteristic of those of his calling; that he had received a good education, through the kindness of a generous benefactor; that he had performed the duties of clerk for a considerable time; and, lastly, that, although circumstances had forced him to resort to thecrochetsof a messenger, he had not chosen to adopt the habits of his confrères: that he did not frequent wine shops, to which his visit of the previous evening was his first, and that his language was still as refined and agreeable as his voice.
"Here I am, mademoiselle," said Paul, saluting the young woman awkwardly enough; for nothing makes a man so awkward as a first love, especially a man who does not make a business of seduction. It is not so with women: love almost always makes them more charming and attractive; by augmenting their desire to please, it heightens the charms they already possess and sometimes gives them others which had not previously been detected in them. "I have come too early, perhaps; did I wake you?"
"Oh, no! Monsieur Paul," the girl replied, with a pleasant smile. "I have been awake a long time, and was waiting for you. Come in, but don't make any noise, for my aunt is still asleep, and I should be very glad if she could find everything done when she wakes."
The messenger followed Elina into the apartment, and she showed him the little room which she occupied.
"That's all the furniture I have," she said; "a cot-bed, a walnut wardrobe, this little desk, and a chair; but I'm afraid it's too much for a loft. However, I should like to get it all in, if I could; for the wardrobe was my mother's and the little desk my father's, and with those two pieces it seems to me as if I wasn't quite an orphan—as if papaand mamma were still here looking out for me. I think one is so fortunate to have something that used to belong to one's parents. Why, I wouldn't sell those two things for all the gold in the world! And yet, they're old and out of fashion; my aunt said once that the wardrobe wasn't good for anything but firewood. Oh! I was terribly angry that day! and my aunt has never said that again. Burn this wardrobe, in which my mother kept her dresses and all her clothes, and this desk that my father wrote on every day—never! never! And even if I should ever be rich, I should think just as much of them, and I would never part with them."
Tears stood in Elina's eyes when she finished. Paul looked at her with emotion, lovingly; she seemed to him prettier than ever, for laudable sentiments have a way of embellishing those who are inspired by them, whereas evil sentiments change and distort the prettiest face. Women do not regard their own interests when they are angry, sulky, or jealous.
"You are quite right, mademoiselle," said Paul, with a sigh; "you must be very happy to have something that comes from your parents."
"Have you lost yours, Monsieur Paul?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"A long while ago?"
"Yes."
"Didn't they leave you anything that had belonged to them?"
"No, mademoiselle—nothing."
"Mon Dieu! what an extraordinary resemblance there is between us! Both orphans; both hardly knew our parents—we are in the same situation."
"Oh! no, mademoiselle; you are much more fortunate!"
"Yes, of course; because I have this wardrobe and this little desk."
Paul made no reply, but turned his head away and wiped his eyes.
"What a stupid creature I am!" cried Elina; "to talk of things that make you sad! Come, let us go to work; we have none too much time. I have the key of our new lodgings; it's the door on the opposite side of the landing; I'll go and open it."
While the girl went to open the door, Paul took down the bed, being careful to make as little noise as possible; then he began to move the furniture into the new lodgings.
Elina pointed out a little loft, which was reached from a small, square room.
"That's my bedroom," she said. "It seems that I shan't have any too much light up there. However, my aunt says that one doesn't need to see in order to go to bed."
"Your aunt is far from kind to you, mademoiselle; and yet she cannot have any fault to find with you."
"Oh! Monsieur Paul, aunts don't think as one's—friends do. They always find some reason for scolding. Wait; there's a ladder to climb up to my new room; let me fix it firmly."
"Let me do that, mademoiselle."
The young man put the ladder in place and went up into the loft.
"Do you think it will hold all my furniture?" Elina called to him.
"Why, it's not so very small. But if you set up your bed, mademoiselle, there won't be room for your wardrobe and desk."
"In that case, we won't set it up; I don't care anything about it—it's my aunt's. I'd much rather sleep on the floor, and keep my father's and mother's furniture."
"But you won't be comfortable if you sleep on the floor."
"I shall be all right. I am not hard to suit, and I am perfectly content if my wardrobe and desk can be got in."
Paul did as she desired; he placed on the floor, in one corner of the loft, the two mattresses that were on her bed; then he went back and brought the walnut wardrobe and the little desk, and succeeded in finding room for them in the young girl's new apartment; she, meanwhile, remained at the foot of the ladder, clapping her hands and jumping for joy when she found that the loft would hold the two objects to which she was so much attached.
"They are all right," said Paul; "but, mademoiselle, there's no room for anything else, not even a chair."
"Oh! I don't care. I don't need any chair up there; I can sit on my bed. I must come up and see how you have arranged it."
And the pretty creature ran nimbly up the ladder into the loft, forgetting that Paul was still there. It is very imprudent for a young lady to be in a loft with a young man. It is much more dangerous when the young man is good-looking, and one is already inclined to like him.
But Elina did not think of all that. Luckily for her, Paul was honorable and shy. But the most virtuous heart may prove recreant when it is very much in love. Paul's beat violently when the girl climbed the ladder and entered that poor chamber, where it was not possible to stand upright. He had squatted in a corner, in order not to take up too much room, and he dared not stir.
"Oh! how nicely it's arranged!" exclaimed Elina, looking about; "there's room for everything; I shall have everything right at hand. Oh! how pleased I am!"
And the girl, forgetting that the place was very low, raised her head to thank Paul; but she struck the ceiling, then stumbled, and fell on the mattress with a little shriek.
Instantly Paul was on his knees by her side; he examined her head anxiously, saying:
"Mon Dieu! you must have hurt yourself terribly. I ought to have warned you. I will go and get some water, some liniment."
But Elina was smiling again, and she detained the young man.
"It is nothing," she said. "It made me dizzy, that's all; and that has gone now. I shall get out of it with a bump on my forehead. Dear me! I must accustom myself to my loft."
"Do let me fetch you something, mademoiselle."
"Why, no, I don't need anything, I tell you. Give me your hand."
She took Paul's hand and put it to her forehead.
"Can you feel anything?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; there'll be a swelling there."
"The girls will all laugh at me. I've heard that by pressing hard on the place you can prevent a swelling. Will you press on it, Monsieur Paul?"
"I am afraid of hurting you."
"No, no. Please press; don't be afraid."
The young man trembled in every limb as he pressed his hand against Elina's smooth, white forehead; her glossy fair hair was disarranged, and several curls fluttered about Paul's hand, increasing his emotion to such an extent that his hand suddenly slipped and rested onthe girl's heart instead of on her forehead. Elina made no objection; she had forgotten all about the blow she had dealt herself. The heart almost always acts as aderivative, to use a medical term: when it is well occupied, one is conscious of no pain elsewhere.
Paul no longer knew what he was doing.
"Forgive me for loving you, mademoiselle," he faltered, in a trembling voice; "I know that it is very presumptuous of me; I am not worthy of you, for I am only a poor messenger; but my love is stronger than my reason, it will last all my life. This confession has escaped me in spite of myself. Pray don't be angry; I will never mention it again!"
Elina did not seem at all offended; her cheeks were crimson, and she kept her eyes on the floor, as she faltered in her turn:
"I am not angry. It isn't a crime to love a person. Mon Dieu! Monsieur Paul, even before you told me—I don't know why, but I had thought—I had guessed that you loved me, and—and—it made me happy. I don't forbid you to mention it to me—far from it!"
"Ah! mademoiselle, how good you are! and how happy I should be, if—if——"
He dared not say: "If you loved me, too." But his eyes finished the sentence. Elina, who understood him as well as if he had said the words, replied artlessly:
"I thought that you had guessed, too."
Paul put her hands to his lips, and covered them with kisses.
"Ah! I am permitted to know the most perfect happiness!" he cried; "I envy no man on earth. To be loved by you—I dare not believe it! The thought will increase my courage tenfold. I will work harder than ever, sothat I can save money; and if I could offer you a comfortable existence; if I could save enough to have a little home of our own; if—— But, no, it is impossible; I can never hope for anything of the kind."
Paul's face became sad once more, and he looked away from Elina. But she took his hand and pressed it softly, saying:
"Well, well! why are you so sad, all of a sudden? I feel so happy! Do you think that I am ambitious, pray, and that I won't be content with whatever you can offer me? It is very bad of you to think that."
"No, mademoiselle; it isn't money that I am thinking of. I am very sure that you are like me, and that you don't care about that. But it is—it is—— Oh! mademoiselle, I will tell you everything, for I do not want to deceive you; and no matter what it costs me to make the confession, you shall know what I am; then you will see that I am not worthy of your love."
"Mon Dieu! what do you mean? You frighten me! Have you done anything wrong?"
"No, it's not that. But you said just now that our positions were the same, because we are both orphans. That is not true, mademoiselle; you have lost your parents, but you did know them; you know who they were, you remember your father's kisses. But I have no idea who my parents are. They may be living, but I do not know whether they are or not. They cast me out, spurned me from their arms. In a word, I am a wretched foundling."
"A foundling?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; I was left at the door where all the poor children are left whose parents cannot or, in some cases, do not choose to bring them up. There wasa paper on me, on which was written:Paul de Saint-Cloud.Saint-Cloud is probably where I was born. And on my forearm there was a little cross—which I still have, for it doesn't wear out;—was that mark placed there so that I might be found and identified some day? I hoped so for a long time. But now I have ceased to hope, for I am more than twenty-three years old, and I have never heard of my parents. During all the time I passed with Monsieur Desroches,—an excellent man, who took me from the charitable asylum when I was ten years old, and treated me like his own son,—he did all that he could to obtain some information which would help me to find my parents; but it all came to nothing; and when my benefactor saw me weeping with grief, because I could not embrace my father or mother, he would kiss me affectionately, and say: 'Don't grieve so, my boy; birth is a game of chance; those who come into the world with a name and rank and wealth all ready for them, often do not take the trouble to cultivate talents and estimable qualities, because they deem themselves sufficiently well equipped as they are; but he who begins his life without any of those advantages is compelled to behave well in order to obtain what he lacks. According to that, my boy, the advantage would seem to be with him who comes into the world without anything.' With such arguments, Monsieur Desroches comforted me and gave me courage. But I am a poor foundling none the less, with no name, no family, to offer you. That is what I felt bound to tell you, mademoiselle; for it is wrong to deceive anyone. That is what makes me think that I shall never be considered worthy to be your husband."
Elina had listened to the young messenger's story with the most profound interest; her eyes were filled withtears when he finished, and she held out her hand, saying with the impulsive frankness that comes from the heart:
"Take my hand; I give it to you, and what you have told me will not prevent me from loving you; far from it; and since my parents are dead, it seems to me that I have the right to select a husband for myself."
Beside himself with joy, Paul seized the hand she offered him, and covered it with kisses, repeating the most fervent oaths.
"Just see how things change their aspect!" cried the girl, in her ingenuous delight; "this loft, which seemed such a dismal place to me at first, seems very attractive now, and I am sure that I shall like it very much; for I shall always remember that it was here that you first told me that you loved me."
Paul was about to reply with renewed protestations, when they heard a great burst of laughter close at hand. They stepped to the entrance to the loft, and saw three young men in the small room below that opened on the landing, standing at the foot of the ladder, clapping their hands, shoutingbravo, and laughing uproariously.
The new-comers were Albert, Célestin, and Mouillot, whom we left asleep in Balivan's studio, and who, when they woke about six in the morning, began by laughing at the idea of their being in that place. Then they started to return to their respective abodes; but when they were on the landing, Célestin remembered the pretty neighbor.
"By the way," he said, "what about the little neighbor overhead! Parbleu! she must be at home still, and I won't go away without a look at her."
"Nor I, either," added tall Mouillot. "I want to decide whether she's as good-looking as Balivan claims.—Au revoir, Albert! Go on, if you're in a hurry."
"No; I still have some time to spare, and I also am curious to see the neighbor. I will go with you, messieurs."
"But how shall we get her to open the door?"
"That's a simple matter. We will knock, stamp heavily on the floor, and say in a deep voice: 'The water carrier, mamzelle.'—The water carriers always come early, and people open their doors for them, even when they're only half dressed. She'll open for us."
And the young men went upstairs, leaving Varinet still asleep, with his olive in his pocket.
When they reached the upper landing, they were surprised to find two open doors.
"It seems that we shall not have to play water carrier," they said. "Can it be that the pretty neighbor sleeps with her door open? That would indicate the confidence of innocence—or just the opposite. Which door shall we go in?"
"Let chance decide."
Chance led them into the small room below the loft. There their attention was attracted by the fervent protestations of love repeated by Paul and Elina, who did not hear them enter the room; for lovers, when they are swearing to adore each other, never hear anything else.
Thereupon the young men made their comments aloud.
"I should say that we had found a nest!" said Mouillot.
"Love in a loft! a genre picture," added Albert.
"And to think that Balivan extolled his neighbor's virtue!" observed Célestin. "I thought our artist was more sharp-witted than that; but it seems that he doesn't know all the colors yet."
The outburst of laughter followed, and warned the lovers at last that there was somebody close at hand.
Elina blushed to the whites of her eyes when she saw the young men; Paul quivered with wrath, and would have rushed down the ladder, but Célestin had just taken it away.
"Things seem to be progressing up there," said Mouillot; "we're beginning our day well."
"On my word, she is charming!" said Albert; "Balivan didn't deceive us."
"True, so far as her face goes."
"Why have you come here, messieurs? what do you want?" demanded Paul; "why do you presume to take away the ladder? Put it back at once!"
"Aha! the lover is losing his temper!" said Mouillot. "But, just consider—suppose we were evil-minded? We have you both in a cage up there—suppose we should go and tell the young lady's parents; what would you say?"
"That there is no harm, messieurs, in going into a loft when one is moving furniture there; and that is why I am here now with mademoiselle."
"Ah! not bad! not bad! and it was part of the moving to kiss her, I suppose; and to swear eternal love, young Lothario?"
"I kissed mademoiselle's hand only, monsieur. As to what I said to her, that doesn't concern you; you had no right to listen."
"Hoity-toity! then you should lock the doors, imprudent children that you are!"
"Why, God bless me! the lover is one of our messengers, Sans-Cravate's mate!"
"Yes, that is so! it was he who did Tobie's errands yesterday. Ah! young dressmaker! is it possible? you listen to a messenger? Why, you degrade yourself, girl;your trade entitles you to look higher—especially with such lovely eyes!"
"Treat mademoiselle with respect, messieurs!" exclaimed Paul; "or I'll make you repent your insolence!"
"Do you, knave," retorted Célestin, "begin by holding your tongue; if not, you'll be whipped for your impertinence."
"We shall not put back the ladder except on several conditions," said Albert; "first, that the little dressmaker allow us to kiss her."
"I," said Mouillot, "demand that she measure me for a pair of drawers."
Elina made no reply; in her distress, she had taken refuge in the farthest corner of the loft, where she tried to avoid the glances of the young men. But Paul could not control his wrath; he jumped down into the room below, at the risk of injuring himself, rushed at Célestin, snatched the ladder from him with a powerful hand, and placed it against the entrance to the loft.
"Now, let anyone dare to take it away, and he will have to settle with me!"
The messenger had acted so rapidly and energetically that the young men were speechless for a moment. Then Célestin walked toward Paul, saying:
"Leave this room instantly! Gentlemen like us do not care to soil our hands with a fellow of your stamp; but if I had a cane, I'd break it over your shoulders."
Paul took his stand in front of Célestin and looked him straight in the eye, as he rejoined:
"Men like me, messengers though we are, are far above men of your stamp, who know no better than to insult an honest girl. If you do deem yourself my superior in the street, because I stand there to do yourerrands, here, you are far below the poor man of the people; for he bears himself with honor, while your conduct is that of a scoundrel."
"Ah! this is too much!—Well, messieurs, won't you help me to thrash this wretch?"
Albert hesitated; one would have said that Paul's resolute bearing had made an impression on him, and that in his heart he felt that the young man was in the right. But Mouillot did not choose to disregard Célestin's appeal; he ran to the ladder, and Célestin tried to drag Paul from his position by pulling his arm; but the messenger pushed him away so violently that he stumbled over his friend Mouillot. However, they were preparing to renew their attack, when they heard a succession of piercing shrieks; and little Elina, seeing that Paul was going to fight, added her voice to the tumult, calling for help.
"Robbers! robbers!" a voice cried from the next apartment.
"Mon Dieu! it's my aunt who is being robbed!" said Elina. "Do go and see, Monsieur Paul!"
Paul was unwilling to move from the foot of the ladder and leave Elina exposed to the enterprises of the young men. But the appearance of an old woman, clad in nothing but a chemise and a camisole, with an old handkerchief, twisted into the shape of a turban, on her head, changed the whole aspect of affairs; it was Elina's aunt, who, regardless of the incompleteness of her costume, ran wildly about the room, shrieking:
"Robbers! there's a thief in my room! I saw him standing by my bed when I woke up! Arrest him, messieurs, I beg you! he's there still. I put myself under your protection."
And Madame Vardeine would have rushed into the arms of the young men; but they were cruel enough to shrink from the embraces of that lady in chemise and camisole, who at that moment concealed none of her charms.
Meanwhile, attracted by the shrieks of the old woman and the girl, the concierge had arrived upon the scene, carrying his broom in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He thrust his broom into the chamber first, as if he intended to remove the cobwebs; then entered himself, saying in a hoarse voice:
"Is anybody being killed here? What's all this row about? It's hardly daylight, and you're fighting already! I give you notice that I am going to tell the landlord, so that he'll turn you all out of doors."
The concierge's head, upon which he wore three or four woollen and cotton caps, one above another, and Madame Vardeine's, with her turban awry, were so comical to look at, that Mouillot and Albert roared with laughter. To add to the confusion, Varinet also appeared in the doorway.
"What are you all doing here?" he inquired.
At sight of the young man with the white eyebrows, Madame Vardeine gave a jump which shook her whole frame in a distressing way.
"There's my robber!" she cried; "that's the man I saw by my bed when I woke up; I know him by his eyebrows!"
"Mon Dieu, madame!" rejoined Varinet, calmly; "I beg that you will excuse me, but I was looking for these gentlemen; I heard them laughing, from the floor below; so I came up, found a door open, and entered your apartment with no idea where I was going."
Madame Vardeine did not seem convinced, and the concierge still held his broom in the air as if he proposed to sweep everybody out of the room. But the arrival of Balivan restored peace. The painter rescued his friends, guaranteeing that there were no thieves among them, and they decided at last to go away with him; but before taking their leave, each of them cast a parting glance at the loft, where Elina crouched, trembling from head to foot.
"She is charming," said Albert.
"I shall see her again," said Mouillot.
"Yes, yes," added Célestin; "and everyone will receive what he deserves for his conduct this morning."
Paul made no reply, but the glance with which he met Célestin's seemed to defy him, and to show how little heed he paid to his threats.
It was eight o'clock in the morning; Sans-Cravate was in his usual place, not lying on hiscrochetsthis time, but seated on the end of them, with his elbows resting on his knees, and his head in his hands, looking about from time to time with a dissatisfied air. His eyes often sought out Paul's place, which was empty; then he clenched his fists, muttered some words between his teeth, and stamped on the ground impatiently.
Jean Ficelle was pacing back and forth, within a space of about twenty yards; constantly passing in front of his comrade, to whom he spoke now and then, while he tookhuge bites from an enormous piece of bread and from a bologna sausage, alternately.
"Well, Sans-Cravate, you don't have anything to say this morning. Did our little spree last night tie up your tongue? You ain't sick, are you?"
"No, no! I've forgotten all about it; I'm all right."
"Pardié, you wasn't drunk, anyway! anybody who says you was drunk lies."
"I think myself that I had a little too much."
"Not a bit of it; you think that because you got into a dispute, and that heated you up. You could have drunk a lot more. Do you know, I'm very sorry you couldn't settle your bet with Père Cagnoux; that would have staggered the old boy. It was that snivelling Paul that spoiled it all. Hm! he was rather inclined to crawl. Refuse to fight! that's just what he did! I call him a poor cuss for friends to be seen with. Look you, a comparison: he's like a slater that's afraid to go up on the roof and is only willing to slate the ground floor."
"But he was willing to fight with the rest of you."
"Oh! yes! for what? mere brag! humbug! he knew well enough that challenging everybody was just the same as challenging nobody. You're the one that he insulted—and, whatever way you look at it, you're the one he owed reparation to. To refuse to drink with friends, and break their glasses! Thanks! that's too damned unceremonious!"
"Oh! now that my head's clear, that isn't what I bear him a grudge for. You see yourself that he was quite right to despise that Laboussole, as he's a thief; and I blush now to think that I drank with such a cur!"
"No, no, not at all! you're all wrong! You think Laboussole's a thief, just because they arrested him as a thief!—why, that's one of the law's spiteful tricks. Aman may be involved in a bad piece of business and not be a thief, for all that. I'm sure that Laboussole will come out as white as snow. Come and have a glass of beer. It's my treat."
"No, thanks; I ain't thirsty."
"Oh! you ain't hungry or thirsty to-day! Well, just as you please. But you see the little sneak don't dare to come here this morning; that proves that he has a feeling that he's in the wrong."
"That's true; it's almost nine o'clock, and Paul is almost always the first one here; he don't seem to come."
Jean Ficelle continued to walk back and forth; then stopped again in front of Sans-Cravate, saying with a mocking expression:
"Dame!perhaps his time was so well occupied last night that he's resting this morning—that's what's the matter!"
Sans-Cravate sprang to his feet.
"What do you mean by that?" he cried, with a savage gesture.
"I mean—I mean——Faith! you know well enough what I mean; and I'll bet I know who he's with now."
"With Bastringuette, you mean, don't you?"
"Dame!it seems to me that she didn't hesitate to show you that she preferred that popinjay to you. Women must have mighty little taste; such a fine fellow as you are! Why, you'd make three of Paul!"
"Oh! I'm not jealous of his good fortune," rejoined Sans-Cravate, struggling to appear calm; "let him go with Bastringuette, if he chooses! But last night I saw that he didn't go with her when we left the wine shop; he went away alone—and she—she waited to see if I was following her; then she went off alone, too."
"Bah! humbug! they met afterward. If we knew where Paul lived, we could go and see if he was at home. Do you know where he lives, Sans-Cravate?"
"No, I don't; he told me he lived Faubourg Montmartre way; but that's all."
"The devil! in a faubourg! it would be a nice job to find him! There's some mystery about that fellow; he's a queer fish."
"What difference does it make whether he's at home, or at her room? I don't care a hang! I'm done with Bastringuette."
"Never mind," muttered Jean Ficelle, biting into his bread; "if a mate of mine took my mistress from under my nose, it wouldn't make any difference if I didn't love her—that wouldn't be the end of it."
"And do you suppose that I won't have my revenge?" shouted Sans-Cravate, giving free vent to his anger, and clenching his fists with a threatening air.
"Good!" said Jean Ficelle, patting the other's shoulder hypocritically; "that's more like you. You're still a man. I says to myself: 'It's mighty strange that a brick like Sans-Cravate stands being put upon without doing anything'; but I see that you have a plan; bravo! you're a man!"
At that moment, a short, thin individual, dressed in black, but not well dressed, stopped in front of the two messengers, and said to them:
"You two are the men I want; you're Sans-Cravate, aren't you; and you, Jean Ficelle?"
They assented, and the man in black continued:
"Then you'll be kind enough to come and see monsieur le commissaire."
Jean Ficelle was visibly disturbed by the mention of the magistrate, while Sans-Cravate asked:
"What the devil should we go to see monsieur le commissaire for? I've never been there, and I've no business to settle with him."
"Weren't you at the Petit Bacchus wine shop last night, when a certain Laboussole was arrested there? weren't you drinking with him?"
"Yes, but we didn't know him," Jean Ficelle made haste to reply.
"You can tell monsieur le commissaire what you know about him; he wants to question you. That's all I know; don't fail to come this morning."
"We will come, monsieur."
The little man went away. Jean Ficelle had become thoughtful, and Sans-Cravate knitted his brows, muttering:
"To have to go before the magistrate! Not three days ago, I was congratulating myself on never having had anything to do with him. I've had quarrels enough; I've often fought, but I've always fought fair. No man I ever whipped could complain of being tricked, and there was no need of going before a magistrate to settle our quarrels. And to-day—just because I drank with that Laboussole, a friend of yours,—and now you say that you don't know him, and again that he ain't a thief. Tell me the truth, do you know him, or not?"
"Good God! as if I was called on to compromise myself before the magistrate to help someone else!"
"But if that someone is your friend, if he's arrested unjustly, you'd be a coward if you didn't try to defend him."
"Parbleu! Laboussole's a fox; he will get out of it without any help. Come, Sans-Cravate, don't be ugly; after all, the most respectable people go before the magistrate; you see, we're only summoned as witnesses."
"Sacrédié!what do you expect to be summoned for? Let's go right away; I long to have it over with."
"All right, let's go."
"But I don't know where the magistrate lives; do you, Jean Ficelle?"
"Yes, it ain't very far from here; come, I'll show you the way."
"And Paul hasn't come yet; but perhaps we shall find him at the magistrate's, too."
The two messengers soon reached their destination.
There are four police magistrates for each arrondissement of Paris, which makes forty-eight for the whole city. That is none too large a number for such a huge, densely populated, turbulent city, where so many things happen every day.
A lantern suspended over the door indicates the magistrate's residence; his office is rarely a particularly attractive apartment; but there is no occasion for him to go to much expense for the benefit of the society he ordinarily receives there, and cleansing would be a useless luxury. Those who come thither are not even accustomed to wipe their feet on the mat—when there is one.
You enter the office, where the magistrate's clerk and secretary are usually to be found, although sometimes the latter official has his desk in another room. Then comes the magistrate's private office, to which everybody is not admitted.
Just as Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle arrived, a corporal and two soldiers brought in two women and a boy, the latter holding in his arms a small black dog, evidently a very young puppy.
One of the women was about fifty years of age; she was so enormous that she seemed not to be a humanbeing at all, but a shapeless mass, on top of which was a red, purple, scarlet face surmounted by a dirty bonnet with flying strings; she was a wine shop keeper.
The other woman was younger; she was thin and pale, and had not a pleasant face; but, at all events, she resembled a woman; she was dressed very modestly, and wore a cap and an apron.
The boy, who was about fourteen, could boast already of an enormous head and two puffy cheeks which concealed his nose; he resembled the bulky wine shop keeper, if anything could have resembled her. He was dressed in a blouse, with a small cap on his head; he wore shoes, but no stockings.
The party entered the magistrate's office, yelling, whining, and hurling insults at one another; and the corporal was compelled at times to exert his authority, to keep the two women from fighting.
A considerable crowd, entertained by the quarrel between the two, followed them to the magistrate's door, but were not allowed to go farther.
The magistrate left his private office, where he did not hear trivial matters, and, first of all, asked the corporal what the two women had done.
A corporal of the line is not always a born orator; this one put his hand to his shako, and answered:
"Faith!—the thing—well, you see, I don't know anything about it, but these two women made such a noise in the street—and then they hit each other—and there was this dog here—this little pup no bigger than my hand—then someone came after us to put a stop to it—and,sapredié!how they gave it each other on the way! but as for telling you which is in the right, monsieur le commissaire, I'll never try."
Having presented his report, the corporal stepped back. Thereupon the magistrate addressed the two women.
"Well, which of you is the complainant?"
They both spoke at once, and the boy chimed in as well.
"She's the one that's in the wrong, monsieur le commissaire."
"That ain't true, for she says I stole her dog."
"Of course, when I saw you."
"You lie!"
"And she kicked me in the fat of my leg, above the garter."
"And she pinched me so she tore my dress, and you can see the marks of her nails."
"Shut up, you saucy hussy! you ought to tell him that you're the cause——"
"Yes, monsieur le commissaire; she's the cause of it. I've never been here before—this is the first time, I can tell you that!"
The boy, who had the Limousin accent, and talked as if his mouth were full of paste, tried to put in a word:
"First—sure as I stand here—for I was carrying my—my basket, and I saw her!"
To add to the confusion, the dog began to yelp.
"Very good," said the magistrate, with a smile, for he saw that the affair was of no consequence. "I judge that a dog is the subject of your dispute. Well, we will follow Solomon's example, cut him in two, and give half to each of you."
"That's right!" cried the bulky mass, trying to laugh, until her enormous paunch seemed on the point of bursting. "There's no way but cutting him in two."
"The deuce! I should say that you are not the real mother."
"Oh! monsieur le commissaire, I was joking when I said that; but he's my dog. I've got witnesses, too."
"Oh, yes!" cried the thin woman; "and the very first man that came into your shop, when you said to him: 'Ain't that my dog?' answered: 'I never saw him.'"
"She lies! she lies! it is my dog. Everybody knows him; and then, he was with François, my son here;—come, François, make your deposition."
François opened his mouth and moved his lips a long while before he could find a word to say, his excitement had such a powerful effect on his mental faculties; at last, he muttered in a thick voice:
"First—sure as I stand here—as I was going along with my basket, I thought the dog was behind me—and she grabbed him, and run off with him!"
"That ain't true; he's lying, monsieur le commissaire. The dog was ahead of him—a long way ahead of him—when I saw the little creature, and I said: 'He hasn't got any master,' and I picked him up. If he was his, why didn't he say: 'That's my dog.' But he let me pick him up, and it wasn't till madame overtook him that he began to run after me and yell: 'Stop thief!'—What is there to prove that the dog belongs to them and not to me?"
The magistrate, having weighed these depositions in his mind, said to the boy in a grave tone:
"Put the dog on the floor, and let both of these ladies call him; I will give him to the one he follows."
François placed the little creature on the floor. The two women began to call him, lavishing the most affectionate words on him. The dog did not stir, and the affair became complicated. The two women recommencedtheir billingsgate, the boy stuttered, the soldiers laughed, and the dog howled. Suddenly the thin woman began to take off her dress to show the marks of the pinching she had received; but the corpulent woman, divining her purpose, instantly raised her skirt, and, fearlessly exhibiting her leg above the garter, cried triumphantly:
"Look, monsieur le commissaire, look! it's blue, it's all blue, and it'll be all black to-morrow!"
It was blue, in fact; to be sure, the rest of the leg seemed to be about the same color; but the magistrate, who did not care to see any more, said to the other woman:
"That seems to be authentic; if you can't show as much, it's of no use for you to unbutton your dress."
The thin woman decided not to disrobe, but began to weep, mumbling:
"Let her keep the dog, for all I care! Mon Dieu! let her keep him! I don't want him! But she's a saucy slut, all the same; a person ain't to be called a thief because she picks up a dog in the street that has no owner!"
The cause was decided, and the magistrate rendered judgment. He awarded the dog to the stout woman, who took him in her arms and waddled triumphantly away with François, followed by her antagonist, muttering:
"Never mind! you shall pay me for this, dearer than you think!"
Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle stepped forward, but the magistrate motioned to them to sit down and wait, for he had many other cases to hear. In the office of a Parisian police magistrate the stage is seldom unoccupied.
Other soldiers, with a short, thickset woman at their head, who seemed disposed to command them, although they also had a corporal with them, brought in a small boy of ten or twelve years, wretchedly clad, or, to speakmore accurately, hardly clad at all. Ragged trousers revealed his bare legs, and a linen jacket, devoid of buttons, made no pretence of concealing a torn shirt, black with dirt, and a body blacker still. The little wretch, who, despite his miserable aspect, was stout and strong, had a mean face, and a hangdog glance, which seemed never to have looked at the sky.
This young thief, for the boy had previously been convicted of larceny, was now under arrest charged with stealing a loaf of bread; the thickset woman had the loaf under her arm; she explained to the magistrate that she was a fruit seller and dealt also in soldiers' bread, which she kept at the door of her shop; that the boy crept up to a table on which the bread was, and that another urchin, probably in league with the thief, ran against her and fell almost between her legs; while she helped him get up, his comrade seized a loaf and ran away with it. But she saw him in time; she ran after the little villain and caught him with the stolen loaf still in his possession; so that he could not deny his crime.
"Why did you steal this loaf?" the magistrate sternly asked the little thief, who had listened to the fruit seller's declaration as if it did not concern him, drumming on the clerk's desk with his fingers. He swayed from right to left, just like a bear, stuck out his lips, hung his head lower than ever, and at last mumbled something which could not be taken for words.
"Why did you steal this bread?" repeated the magistrate, more severely than before. "Come, answer; and speak up so that you can be heard."
Thereupon a low, drawling voice replied:
"'Cos I was hungry! I ain't had nothing to eat for two days."
"That is not true; you haven't the face of one who is starving; at all events, if you were hungry, you should have gone to a baker's shop and asked for bread; you wouldn't have been refused. But we know your ways; you stole this loaf of bread to sell again, and get three or four sous to gamble with on the boulevard or at the barrier; isn't that the truth?"
The little fellow again began to sway back and forth. He made a grimace which seemed to be intended for a smile, and said nothing.
"Are your parents living?" continued the magistrate.
"I dunno."
"What! you don't know whether you have a father and mother?"
"I ain't got no father, I don't think."
"And your mother?"
"She sells fried potatoes."
"Isn't she able to pay for your apprenticeship to some trade?"
"I don't want to work."
"You prefer to steal! you hope to be imprisoned with other little rascals of your sort, with whom you will become hopelessly bad. Where does your mother live?"
The little vagabond made no reply. The magistrate repeated his question.
"I won't tell you; I don't want her to claim me; I won't go back to her!"
"Then you will be taken to the préfecture, and from there to a house where you'll have to work."
Nothing that the magistrate could say seemed to move the young thief in the slightest degree; but when the secretary took his pen to write the report for the préfecture, the little rascal began to laugh, and muttered:
"V'là le griffon qui prend une voltigeante pour broder sur du mince."[F]
The soldiers led the offender away, and the fruit seller went off with her bread. This scene depressed Sans-Cravate; he glanced at his comrade, who seemed utterly unmoved by what he had seen and heard.
A well-dressed man, and of gentlemanly aspect, came forward and informed the magistrate that at No. 19 in the next street, on the third floor, at the rear of the courtyard, a gambling hell was being carried on clandestinely, under cover of a so-called reading-room. The gamblers were admitted by a secret door, and opening out of the reading-room was another room, in which roulette andtrente-et-unwere played. The magistrate was invited to visit the place, with his inspectors, about ten o'clock at night, when he would be sure to find the games in full operation; his informant would come to fetch him and act as his guide; he had succeeded in obtaining admission as a gambler.
This well-dressed, well-mannered man was simply a spy.
Next came a rather attractive young girl, of modest aspect, who was very near weeping as she asked the magistrate why he had summoned her to his office.
"Because you persist in keeping flower pots on your window ledge, mademoiselle, despite the municipal ordinance; and because, very lately, you spattered water on a lady who was passing. I shall be obliged to fine you."
"Mon Dieu! monsieur le commissaire, it's very strange that I could have spattered anybody, watering a small pot of pansies; for I'm always very careful when I water my flowers. Probably some neighbor below me threw thewater out into the street, then the lady looked up and saw a flower pot at my window, and so thought it came from there."
"Still, mademoiselle, your flower pots may cause a serious accident."
"Oh! monsieur le commissaire, just a little pot of pansies!"
"If it should fall on anybody's head, mademoiselle, a pot of pansies might do as much damage as one of poppies. If you are so fond of flowers, why don't you put your pansies on something inside your room? You would enjoy them just as much—yes, more; and there would be no danger to your health, for the pansy has no odor."
The girl lowered her eyes, as she replied:
"That wouldn't be the same thing; if it was inside my room, he wouldn't see it!"
"Hewouldn't see it? Ah! I understand: that pot of pansies is a signal to your lover, is it?"
"Yes, monsieur," faltered the girl, with a smile; "when it's on the ledge, he may come up; and if I happen to have company, I take it away, and he don't come up."
"Very good; he is able to come up very often, I judge, as the pot of pansies seems to be always in evidence; and thus the most innocent of flowers is made to serve the intrigues of lovers!"
"Oh! monsieur, my lover will marry me; I am perfectly sure of it."
"I trust so, mademoiselle; but you must put a wooden bar across your window, so that passers-by will not be in danger; only on that condition can I sanction the flower pot which you use to telegraph to your lover."
"What, monsieur! if I put a wooden rail, a bar, across, you will allow me to keep flowers at my window?"
"Yes; if you do that, you may keep as many there as you choose."
The girl fairly jumped for joy.
"Oh! what fun! I will put a rosebush and carnations with my pansies!"
"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle! will each of the three be a signal to a lover?"
"I'll put up a bar right away; and I'll keep three flower pots there, monsieur le commissaire; three flower pots!"
The girl left the office in a very joyous frame of mind. After her, came a woman who charged her husband with striking her with a skimmer; then a husband who wanted a separation from his wife, because she gave him nothing but onion soup for dinner every day; then a tenant who complained of his concierge, because he made him pass the night in the street, on the ground that it was after midnight when he came home; then a peddler whose tray had been upset; a milkwoman whose donkey had been wounded by a cabriolet; a cab that refused to move; a shop which did not close at midnight; a man who had tried to drown himself; a girl who was found dying of suffocation. Sometimes this sort of thing goes on from morning till night; and it not infrequently happens that the magistrate is roused from his sleep. A man needs to be made of iron to fill that post in Paris.
At length, having dismissed the last of the crowd that besieged him, the magistrate motioned to the messengers to follow him into his private office. Having closed his door, to ensure them against interruption, he seated himself at his desk, and addressed Sans-Cravate first.
"Are you the man called Sans-Cravate?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"This is the first time that you have been summoned to my office?"
"That is true, monsieur le commissaire."
"But you have the reputation, in the quarter, of being a noisy, quarrelsome fellow, and of drinking rather hard, too."
"Faith! monsieur le commissaire, it's possible that I like to enjoy myself, that I'm a little hot-headed, that I fight sometimes! It's in my blood, and I can't make myself over. But all that don't prevent a man from being honest, and I defy anyone to say that Sans-Cravate ever did him an injury."
"I know that you are an honest man, that your head alone is a little unruly; and because I am convinced of that, I wanted to speak to you privately, to give you some good advice. This is the first time you have been to my office, and I like to think that, if you follow my advice, it will be the last."
Jean Ficelle turned his head away, and muttered:
"On my word! a moral lecture! I should think we was atQuart-d'Œil'sschool!"
But Sans-Cravate listened humbly enough to the magistrate, who continued:
"The quickest, the most impulsive people are usually the easiest to lead. Beware of evil associates, Sans-Cravate, that's all; the man who obeys the first suggestions of his anger generally has a weak will; and there are rascals, who, by flattering your passions, sometimes lead you into bad ways."—As he said this, the magistrate glanced at Jean Ficelle, who affected to whistle through his teeth.—"Sans-Cravate, you were at the same table, last night, in a wine shop, with one Laboussole; where did you make that man's acquaintance?"
"Faith! monsieur le commissaire, I know him only by having met him at the Petit Bacchus, and, as Jean Ficelle called him his friend, I invited him to have a drink with us."
"I!" cried Jean Ficelle; "I didn't know him any more'n you did; just from meeting him at the wine shop. I called himold fellow;that's a term men often use to each other when they're drinking together; but I don't know him."
"You lie!" said the magistrate, gazing sternly at the messenger; "you do know that man; you know that he ran a game of chance, abiribi, under Pont d'Austerlitz; and you are suspected of having been his confederate."
"I, monsieur le commissaire! on my word! what a slander!"
"If I were certain of it, you would have ceased to be a messenger before this; for you would be likely to betray the confidence of the public.—As for you, Sans-Cravate, you see how dangerous it is to form intimacies with people you don't know. This Laboussole, in addition to the punishment he has earned for conducting games of chance, is also involved in a serious case of larceny; if you were often seen with such men, your reputation for honesty would suffer. That is what I wanted to say to you. We have too many rascals in Paris now, and it is almost always by frequenting their society that others are ruined. As you know nothing more about Laboussole, you may go."
"But, monsieur le commissaire," said Jean Ficelle, in a fawning tone, "we wasn't the only ones with Laboussole in the wine shop; our mate was there, too—Paul, a messenger who has a stand where we do; why don't you examine him too?"
"If we do not summon that young man before us, it is presumably because we do not deem it necessary. Our purpose in summoning Sans-Cravate was principally togive him some good advice, and to urge him to distrust evil acquaintances. As for your young comrade, such advice to him is unnecessary. He is neither a drinking man, nor a quarrelsome man, nor a frequenter of wine shops; the best thing you could do would be to take him for a model. You may go now."
The two messengers left the magistrate's office. Sans-Cravate was pensive; he seemed to be reflecting upon what had been said to him; but his comrade, who feared the result of his reflections, exclaimed:
"Who ever heard of a magistrate having the cheek to give advice! For God's sake, ain't we old enough to know how to behave? what's all this talk about liberty, anyway? He'd better attend to making cabs move on, and leave us alone!"
"He seems to have a high opinion of Paul," said Sans-Cravate.
Jean Ficelle pursed up his lips, cast a sidelong glance at his companion, and rejoined:
"Do you know, that gives me a curious idea?"
"What is it?"
"That Paul may be a spy; and that it was him who had Laboussole arrested last night."
"Shut up, Jean Ficelle! don't insult our mate. It's an infernal shame for you to say that!"
"I may not be wrong; ain't there something queer in the way Paul acts? Didn't Laboussole say he'd met him all dressed up—like a regular swell?"
"You dare to tell me what Laboussole said—a thief!"
"What does that prove? A man may steal, and still have good eyes; indeed, he's all the more likely to; and then, one day, in the Marais, I thought myself that I recognized Paul in a man dressed like a rich bourgeois; I'msure now that I wasn't mistaken. If he disguises himself like that, he must have more trades than one. He's a sham messenger, and I go back to my idea: he's a spy!"
"Once more, Jean Ficelle, I forbid you to say such things!"
"But you can't keep me from thinking 'em; ideas are free, like opinions;—a man can't be prevented from having his own opinions and ideas!"
Sans-Cravate made no further reply. They arrived at their stand, but Paul was not there.
Jean Ficelle cast a bantering glance at his comrade, saying:
"He seems to be having a famous spree to-day, does the magistrate's pet!"
Again Sans-Cravate made no reply; but he clenched his fists, and it was evident that he had difficulty in restraining the feelings which agitated him.
More than an hour had passed, when Bastringuette appeared on the boulevard. She had no tray, and was dressed in her best clothes: cap with broad ribbons, merino shawl, and black silk apron. She glanced at the messengers out of the corner of her eye as she passed. Sans-Cravate quickly turned his head and walked away. But Jean Ficelle ran after the flower girl and accosted her:
"Ah! bless my soul! how natty we are! Where can we be going in such a rig? to a wedding, at the very least! it can't be less than that."
"Dame!perhaps that's what it is," retorted Bastringuette, assuming a very sportive air. "Perhaps I'm going to be married myself, nobody knows! Husbands are always on hand!"
She walked on without another word. Jean Ficelle returned to Sans-Cravate, glanced at him, and said nothing.
But Sans-Cravate could not contain himself; a moment later, he cried:
"What did she say? Where's she going? Why don't you speak?"
"She seemed to be as gay as a lark. She said that perhaps she was going to be married. You understand the riddle? She'll be married in the thirteenth arrondissement."[G]
Sans-Cravate hesitated a moment; then, having made up his mind what to do, he said:
"I mean to find out where she's going—to follow her. Are you coming with me?"
"To be sure! As if I would desert a friend! Besides, I don't feel like working to-day. Forward, guide left, march!"
The two messengers followed the boulevard in the direction taken by Bastringuette; they walked very fast, one looking to the right, the other to the left, but they did not see the person they desired to follow.
"Where the devil can she have gone?" said Sans-Cravate.
"It's very strange," rejoined Jean Ficelle, "unless she turned off the boulevard. Here we are at Porte Saint-Denis."
"Let's go on," said Sans-Cravate. "Bastringuette has a cousin who lives Rue Barbette way; perhaps she's gone to see her."
"In the Marais; ah! she has a cousin who lives in the Marais? How that fits in!"
"What's that? what do you mean?"
"Oh! nothing."
"I don't like hints, Jean Ficelle; speak out, sacrebleu!"
"Well, I mean that the Marais is where Paul's always seen when he's disguised as a swell; and Bastringuette comes along, dressed in tiptop style, and goes in that direction.Dame!if a fellow had an evil tongue, he might say that your mistress and our so-called comrade made assignations there—perhaps at the cousin's, who knows? There's such things as obliging cousins."
Sans-Cravate did not say a word, but he strode along the boulevards at such a pace that his companion was breathless with trying to keep up with him. Jean Ficelle suggested a brief halt, but, instead of complying, Sans-Cravate began to run.
"I think I see her over yonder," he shouted; "she turned into Rue du Temple; I must overtake her."
"Thunder and guns!" muttered Jean Ficelle, as he followed on; "my liver'll bust by the time we catch her."