"MADAME:"You will deceive me no more! this time I have seen—seen with my own eyes—that you devote to another the hours that I am not with you. And you told me that I was wrong to be jealous! Ah! your treachery is shameful! Why not have told me frankly that you no longer loved me? But women are never willing to be frank! It is a part of their nature to deceive. I knew it, and I should not have believed you. Adieu, madame, and this time it is really forever!"
"MADAME:
"You will deceive me no more! this time I have seen—seen with my own eyes—that you devote to another the hours that I am not with you. And you told me that I was wrong to be jealous! Ah! your treachery is shameful! Why not have told me frankly that you no longer loved me? But women are never willing to be frank! It is a part of their nature to deceive. I knew it, and I should not have believed you. Adieu, madame, and this time it is really forever!"
Having signed and sealed this missive, Adhémar sent for a messenger and told him to carry it to the person to whom it was addressed, and to come away at once, without waiting for an answer.
Then, throwing himself into a chair, and resting his head on his hand, he abandoned himself to his thoughts, murmuring:
"Oh! if I could only forget her!"
Dodichet, disinherited by his aunt, and with only a hundred francs that he could call his own, should have looked about for some occupation which would afford him a livelihood; but, instead of that, he bought more tobacco and cigars, went into a café and drank a glass of beer, then took a cab and was driven to the so-called hotel on Rue Saint-Jacques, where he had left Monsieur Seringat. He said to himself on the road:
"I must have recourse to that idiot again; it's a great pity, because I owe him a thousand crowns already, and I have no prospect of any legacy hereafter with which to pay him; but still, nobody knows, perhaps the public won't treat me as harshly everywhere as it did at Quimper-Corentin; my voice will come back; I'll take to a diet of yolks of eggs—and mulled eggs. Meanwhile, Seringat may as well lend me another thousand crowns. He's rich; if he wasn't, I wouldn't ask him for a sou, especially as he couldn't give it to me. But he told me himself, in the course of conversation, that he had twelve thousand francs a year. The idiot! he could be so happy with that! And to think that he's in hiding, that he's afraid someone will recognize him—and all because his wife—— Upon my word, it's incredible! I am perfectly sure that he hasn't his like in Paris!"
When he arrived at the old house, Dodichet dismissed the cab; he crossed the courtyard, and on the ground floor found the landlady, who was also concierge, andwho supplied her guests with food; she filled a number of positions, in order to increase her profits. At that moment she was preparing snailsà la provençale: first she took them out of the shell, which she filled with a stuffing strongly seasoned with garlic, then replaced the creature, and let the whole simmer over a slow fire.
"Gad! that smells good!" observed Dodichet; "you're cooking snails, are you, madame?"
"Yes, monsieur; and I venture to flatter myself that they'll be delicious."
"I am not mad over that animal; it seems to me that when he's cooked he becomes exactly like india rubber; but these have a seductive odor."
"They areà la provençale. If monsieur would like a portion, they're only six sous each; that ain't dear."
"Faith! no; and one must come to the upper end of Rue Saint-Jacques to get any sort of a dish all cooked at that price. Put one portion aside for me. I'll eat it when I come down from my friend Miflorès. For I suppose he's in, isn't he? and I'll go up."
The landlady-concierge dropped a snail which she was just preparing, looked at Dodichet with a tragic expression, and exclaimed:
"Stop, monsieur! don't go up! it's no use; you wont find Monsieur Miflorès."
"Has he gone out? Well, then I'll wait for him and eat my snails now; he won't be out long, I fancy?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can assure you that he'll never come back."
"What do you say? he'll never come back? Has he moved again, then? What does this mean?"
"Why, don't you know what has happened, monsieur?"
"Parbleu! madame, if I did know, I wouldn't ask you."
"Well, then, monsieur, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened. But first let me pick up this snail which slipped out of my hand."
"To be sure; shall you cook it with the others?"
"Fire purifies everything, monsieur.—It was like this: just a fortnight ago, a middle-aged man, very well dressed and with a very jovial air, came into my house, followed by a porter with his luggage. He asked me for a good room, and said he expected to spend ten or twelve days in Paris; that he had come here to enjoy himself; and he told me his name, Jacques Ronflard. Very good; I put him in a room on the first floor, looking on this courtyard; he went out soon, and didn't come in till very late. The next morning, monsieur, your friend Miflorès went out as usual to take a short walk before breakfast. He'd no sooner gone than my new tenant, Monsieur Ronflard, comes downstairs and says:
"'Pardieu! you've got an acquaintance of mine here; I just saw him through the window, and I recognized him right off. I'm very glad to find him in the same hotel; he's a good friend of mine, is Seringat, and he comes from Pontoise.'
"I looks at him, and I says:
"'But you're mistaken, monsieur; I haven't got any Seringat in my house.'
"'Excuse me, madame, but I saw him go out of this house this very minute.'
"'The man you saw go out of this house is named Miflorès, and not Seringat, and he never told me that he came from Pontoise.'
"'Apparently, madame, he's concluded to change his name; but I am perfectly sure that the person who just went out is named Seringat, formerly a druggist atPontoise. Parbleu! I know him well; I've often bought insect powder of him to kill fleas. Poor Seringat! he's had a hard time. His wife—you see what I mean? The whole town knew about it; somebody even went so far as to write a song about him. Stay! I remember one verse. It goes to the tune of theCarillon de Dunkerque.'—And with that, he begins to sing:
"Then he goes back to his room, saying:
"'To prove that it's him, you'll see me throw myself into his arms when he comes back. Be kind enough to let me know.'
"So he goes back to his room; and I don't deny that I didn't care much whether the other man was the hero of the song or not. In about a quarter of an hour, Monsieur Miflorès came back. As soon as I saw him, I runs and says to him:
"'Is it true, monsieur, that your name's Seringat, and that you came from Pontoise? There's a man in the house who says he recognized you. He even knows a song about you. He asked me to let him know as soon as you came in.'
"At that, I saw the poor man change color; he rolled his eyes around and clenched his fists, and he says to me:
"'Madame, I forbid you to let that man know. Make up my bill; I am going up to get my baggage and leave the house instantly.'
"It was no use for me to promise not to say anything to the other one; he wouldn't listen to me. He went upto his room, packed his valise, came down again, paid me my money, and went off. But Monsieur Ronflard had seen him through the window. So he comes running down again.
"'What!' he says; 'has he gone? didn't he wait for me? Oh! but I'll catch him!'
"And with that, he ran out to try to overtake his friend. He saw him in front of him, but the other turned and, seeing that he was being followed, began to run as if the devil was after him. Monsieur Ronflard was obstinate; he ran after him, and it seems that he kept calling to him:
"'Stop, don't run like that, Seringat! it's Ronflard; don't you know me?'
"The man from Pontoise ran all the faster. Somebody who saw them scurrying through the streets told me he thought they were running for the firemen. To cut it short, Monsieur Miflorès came to the river; he went down to the shore, saw a boatman pulling down stream, and motioned to him to take him aboard. The man rowed to the bank and laid a plank for him to come aboard. At that moment, Monsieur Ronflard came up and began to sing at the top of his lungs:
"Poor Monsieur Miflorès no sooner heard that song than he rushed onto the plank; but he made a misstep and fell into the water. The current dragged him away—it seems that he couldn't swim. And when they succeeded in fishing him up, he was dead!"
"Dead! Can it be that he is dead? Poor Seringat!—for that really was his true name.—Well! there's no doubt that your Monsieur Ronflard did a good stroke of business then!"
"Why, monsieur, he seemed to be terribly distressed; he had the jaundice on account of it, and he only left Paris yesterday.—'I must go and tell Madame Seringat she's a widow,' he says to me, when he went away; 'I feel sure that it won't make her feel so badly as I do.'"
Dodichet did not recover for several minutes from the shock he had received. Then he sat down at a table and said:
"Be kind enough to give me my plate of snails, madame, with some bread and wine; for, after all, if I don't eat them, that won't bring poor Seringat to life. That's why I prefer to eat them."
The landlady hastened to serve Dodichet, and remained with him to talk, that being her greatest enjoyment. Dodichet heaved a faint sigh from time to time, but he did not waste a mouthful.
"Does monsieur find my snails to his taste?"
"They're very good, madame, and perfectly cooked. You almost make me like the dish, and I am forgetting the loss I have suffered.—Poor Seringat!"
"Is monsieur a great loser by his death?"
"Yes, indeed! I have lost—all that I had in prospect."
"Did he owe you money?"
"No, not exactly. But it amounted to the same thing."
"You will fall back on your friend's wife—his widow, I mean—won't you?"
"No; I have no claim on her. There is nothing left for me but to dedicate one last sigh to the deceased, and think of something else.—How much do I owe you, madame?"
"Sixteen sous in all, monsieur, for the snails and wine and bread."
"Well, that's not dear, on my honor! When I want to treat my mistress, I'll bring her here; especially as I see no prospect of a dinner at Brébant's."
Dodichet paid his bill and left the old hotel of which he had formerly held such a low opinion, but which he was now very glad to know, looking upon it as a possible resource in adversity. He bent his steps toward Boulotte's abode. As the wine he had taken with his snails had not gone to his head, he reflected on his position. The two blows which he had received in rapid succession annihilated all his hopes, and made even his present very precarious. However, he would not allow himself to be cast down; his heedless nature kept him from worrying about the future. Such natures are much to be envied, so some people declare. They never borrow trouble, and everything is rose-colored in their eyes!—I am not of that opinion; heedlessness means disorder, and disorder means ruin; and that is the fate of such happy-go-lucky natures.
When Dodichet arrived at the young ballet dancer's, she was not, as usual, making mineral rouge with bricks, but was engaged in drawing a dainty little network of veins on her temples, with indigo. At sight of her lover, she threw aside her brush and ran to embrace him.
"Here you are! How glad I am! Tell me all about your début and your triumph. I am sure you had wreaths thrown to you, and made plenty of conquests! You were so handsome as Joconde! How many recalls did you have?"
"They recalled me, that's true enough," Dodichet replied, dropping into a chair, "but I didn't choose to goback; because they wanted to play a low trick on me. I had just time to escape, in a policeman's cloak and a fireman's helmet."
"What sort of a tale is this? What new practical joke have you been playing?"
"Well, it was a very poor one; the audience at Quimper-Corentin had the cheek to hiss, to send me to the devil; and I turned round and showed them my other face. At that, there were shouts and yelling and a great hullabaloo; and, as I have just told you, I had hardly time to get away."
"Is it possible? And what's become of your pretty costume?"
"I sold it, on my way back, to get a pair of trousers and a coat."
"So your début—you've got to begin again, eh?"
"Thanks, no! I have no desire to try it again in the same line. My voice won't come back."
"Oh! you smoke too much! I told you so! Luckily, your aunt's dead; a friend of yours told me."
"Yes, my aunt's dead, that's true; but she disinherited me!"
"Oh! my poor boy! what a grind! But, thank heaven! you still have your gold mine—the man who can't refuse you when you ask him for money—the man with the mystery!"
"My dear girl, the man with the mystery has followed my aunt's example; that is, he hasn't disinherited me, but he's dead."
"Oh! mon Dieu! Did someone mention Pontoise to him?"
"Better than that: someone sang him a song that was written about him at Pontoise, in which they poked funat him about his accident; for I can tell you now what it was that that jackass was so afraid people would find out. Sieur Seringat had a very pretty wife, whom he believed to be a regular Lucretia. The fellow had the bad habit of making sport of deceived husbands, of laughing at their expense, and saying that no such misfortune would ever happen to him. But, lo and behold! one day, at an outdoor fête, our Seringat saw a veiled lady in the distance, just at dusk, slip into an isolated summer house, where, not long after, she was joined by a young officer. Feeling sure that the lady he had seen was the wife of one of the leading men of the town, Seringat got together several young men, confided his discovery to them, and guided them to the pavilion, which was not lighted, but which they entered, carrying torches, on the pretext of illuminating it. Whom did they find there? Whom but Madame Seringat, in criminal conversation with the young officer! Who was sheepish and shamefaced then? Who but Seringat; for all the husbands in Pontoise revenged themselves on him, and that same evening his misadventure was known all over the town. Seringat, in his rage and vexation at becoming one of that class at which he had always laughed, left Pontoise the next day, swearing never to return. He took the name of Miflorès, and anybody who knew him could get anything out of him by threatening to disclose his name and his adventure. In fact, he was drowned not long ago, because a man from Pontoise chased him, calling him by his real name, and singing a couplet in which he was ridiculed about his accident. In his haste to escape, Seringat, who was trying to get aboard a boat, made a misstep, fell into the river, and was drowned.—Now you know, my dear girl, how I made him lend me money. He had so much self-esteem, and was so vexedat wearing a pair of horns, that you had only to threaten to tell about it, to obtain all you wanted."
"Well, he was a Gribouille, on my word! to throw himself into the water for fear someone would know he had taken a fancy tothe yellow! If all the husbands that happens to should run into the river, the fish would get a good fright!—And what are you going to do now, my poor Dodichet?"
"I am going to make a cigarette."
"That won't keep you alive."
"True; but to-morrow I shall go to see the theatrical agent. I'll tell him that I've changed my line, that I play the legitimate drama now, the leading rôles, Frédérick Lemaître's and Mélingue's and Dumaine's. He'll soon find me an engagement in some large town; for I don't propose to play in holes in the ground any more. I want a chance now to display my talents on a vast stage!"
"You're sure you have talents, are you?"
"Pardieu! everyone has; the only thing is to find them. A famous thinker has said: 'How many people have come into the world and left it without unpacking all their merchandise!'"
"What does that mean?"
"Don't you understand? You grieve me! That means that many people are born with talents and faculties which events, fatality or poverty, do not permit them to develop, to make manifest. Now, do you see, something tells me that I have dramatic genius in my stomach!"
"Dear me! And do you mean to force it out?"
"I mean to find my real vocation. Meanwhile, would you like me to treat you to snails? I know a place where they cook them in a way to make you lick your fingers."
"Thanks, I prefer something else!"
"After all, I still have a little money in my pocket, and I'll take you to Bonvalet's. Come, O Boulotte! On the way, I will purchase a number of dramas, and this evening I will learn the leading rôles by heart."
"I think I see you!" said Boulotte, putting on her jaunty little hat; "this evening you will smoke!"
After forming the resolution never to see Madame Dermont again, Adhémar, unable to resist successfully his intense longing to meet her, to catch a glimpse of her, even at a distance, suddenly determined to go to England. He gave himself hardly time enough to pack a valise, took plenty of money, and hurried to the railway, which took him to Boulogne, whence he soon crossed the straits. He thought that he could escape from his memories by leaving his country, and went at once to London. He passed six weeks there, which seemed to him six years, did his utmost to fall in love with an Englishwoman, and, failing miserably, returned at last to Paris.
"I believe it will be easier for me to fall in love with a Parisian," he thought; "at all events, it's all over, so far as Nathalie is concerned; I never think of her now, and she probably spends her time with the young man that she met at the Jardin des Plantes. After this, the sight of her will not make the slightest impression on me, and my heart would beat no faster if I should meet her face to face. I no longer love her!"
However, his first act, on reaching Paris, was to go and gaze at the windows of her whom he declared that he no longer loved. He walked up and down in front of her house for a long time, scrutinized everybody who went in or out, and returned home at last, saying to himself that that was simply the remains of an old habit, and that it would soon wear out.
For a week he continued his daily promenades on Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière. On the eighth day, as he was going in the same direction, he remembered that it was just a year since he and his three friends had met at the café at the corner of the boulevard and Faubourg Poissonnière, and that they had all agreed to meet at the same place at the end of a year. So he changed his direction and went to the café, being curious to see whether his friends had remembered the appointment, and at the same time ready to seize any opportunity to obtain even momentary relief from his one haunting thought.
On entering the café, Adhémar spied Philémon Dubotté taking his ease with a glass of punch and a newspaper.
"Bravo!" cried Philémon, as they shook hands; "here are two men of their word! two men with a memory! I never doubted you, my dear fellow. How are you? You look a little pale. Didn't the air of London agree with you? I understand you have been in England?"
"Yes; the London air isn't very clear. It is composed in great part of smoke and fog; but it's not unhealthy, I believe, as the neighborhood of the sea drives away the noxious vapors."
"Did you make a lot of conquests over there? But of course you did."
"On the contrary, I kept clear of all intrigues."
"You astound me! I mean to go to England for the express purpose of finding out how the English women make love."
"Be careful! they take it more seriously than our French women do."
"Meanwhile, my dear Adhémar, you see before you the happiest man in Paris. I have arrived, my dear fellow, in every sense of the word. I am chief of a bureau—the position which was the one object of my ambition; and in my family relations I have nothing left to desire. My wife used to be perfectly killing with her affection; she would have liked to be hanging on my arm all the time; I have cured her of that nonsense, and now she lets me go out without her whenever I choose; sometimes, indeed, she is the first to suggest it. There's a young man who comes to the house to play cards with her, and who takes her to the theatre and to drive. I had great difficulty in accustoming her to it; but now the thing goes all alone, and she leaves me as much liberty as I can possibly desire. Well, Adhémar, what do you say? haven't I steered my ship pretty well? Why don't you congratulate me?"
Adhémar, who had smiled in rather an equivocal way while the handsome blond boasted of his good fortune, made haste to reply:
"You have reached your goal, my dear Dubotté, and, as you are satisfied, there is nothing for me to do but congratulate you."
"Gad! I should be hard to suit if I wasn't satisfied. And you must be, too, my dear fellow, for your success is uninterrupted, and you earn a lot of money."
"Happiness doesn't always depend on money alone."
"What about the other two fellows? have you any news of them?"
"No; I have been away from Paris, you know."
"Between ourselves, I am afraid poor Dodichet has turned out badly. He amused himself by perpetrating practical jokes that were much too dangerous, sometimes. I found him one day at poor old Mirotaine's, where he had brought a supposititious marrying man. I recognized the latter as a druggist from Pontoise, with a wife of his own. The result was confusion, disillusionment, revolution! That was a very poor joke."
"I heard about that. Yes, Dodichet wastes his whole life inventing such monkey tricks, which raise a laugh for the moment, but never have a beneficial result for the man who perpetrates them."
"I am sorry, for Dodichet is a good fellow at bottom."
"A good fellow! We think we have said everything, when we remark, in speaking of a man: 'He's a good fellow.'—For my part, I consider that that epithet is almost always applied to a person with whom it is advisable to avoid any intimate connection, for the good fellow is constantly doing idiotic things: he squanders his money like a fool, and, when it's all gone, thinks it the most natural thing in the world to borrow and never pay. He owes his tailor, his shoemaker, everybody he deals with. He never has a sou in his pocket; but if you ask him to join a party of any sort, he always accepts, and you have to pay for him. Sometimes he will even invite you to dine at one of the best restaurants in Paris; he will entertain you magnificently, sparing neither truffles nor champagne; but when it comes to paying the bill, which may amount to forty francs, he will find only fifty sous in his purse and ask you to advance the rest.He will make an intimate friend of anybody he happens to meet, and sometimes finds himself playing billiards with sharpers, because he is so trustful that he calls people whose names he doesn't know his friends. He never keeps a promise; he constantly feeds on chimerical illusions, and flatters himself that he is going to win a million of money, when he hasn't a sou in his pocket. That's the kind of person a 'good fellow' is: frankly, I prefer a bad one."
As Adhémar finished, an individual, very shabbily dressed, his body encased in an old, greenish frock-coat, buttoned to the chin, with not a particle of linen in sight, with a shocking round hat, almost brimless, on his head, and patched and muddy old boots on his feet, entered the café with a very pronounced limp, and halted in front of the two friends.
"Well, well!" he cried, "don't you know me? Here I am, faithful to our appointment of last year."
"Dodichet!" cried Dubotté and Adhémar in one breath.
"Yes, messieurs; Dodichet himself: slightly the worse for wear, and exceedingly hard up, as you see; but still ready to laugh when occasion offers!"
"But you are limping, aren't you?"
"Mon Dieu! yes, I am limping, and it's for life too; I shall always limp—it's the result of a fool's trick, an experiment, which I will tell you about directly. But make room for me at your table."
"With pleasure; will you have some grog, or beer?"
"Thanks; if it's all the same to you, I prefer a beefsteak."
"Waiter, a beefsteak for monsieur."
"With an endless supply of potatoes."
The beefsteak was brought; Dodichet consumed it, together with two loaves of bread and three carafes ofwater; it was evident that the poor fellow needed recruiting. His two old friends respected his appetite, and asked no questions until he had finished.
"Messieurs," said Dodichet, "having been disinherited by my aunt, and that old fool of a Seringat having fallen into the water while running away from one of his friends who sang a song to him based on his conjugal misadventure, I had no choice but to decide upon some definite course of action. I told you a year ago that the stage was my vocation. I still think so; but I must confess that I was not wildly applauded as a tenor—I smoked a little too much on the day of my début; to cut it short, I was not fortunate at Quimper-Corentin. On my return to Paris, the dramatic agent, to whom I made known my desire to play Frédérick Lemaître's parts, told me to go at once to Carpentras, where the leading man had burst a blood vessel while chasing someone who owed him three francs fifty. So I went to Carpentras; I introduced myself to the manager with that self-assurance to which I am subject. He welcomed me joyfully, and said to me: 'We want to give an extra performance to-morrow, for the benefit of wet-nurses with no children to nurse; I mean to giveTrente Ans, ou la Vie d'un Joueur, and, to end the show, I have a young man from Pithiviers, who's as good at hair-raising leaps as Léotard. Can you play Frédérick's part inTrente Ans?'—'I'll play it for you right away, if you want,' said I, with a laugh. 'Don't be alarmed; I have it at my finger tips.'—That wasn't quite true; but, as I had seen the play very often, I thought to myself: 'I know the entrances and exits; that's the main thing; when the lines escape me, I'll try pantomime, or else I'll think up something that will suit the situation.'—The manager was overjoyed; he announced his extraperformance, as well as my début, and that of a second Léotard. The critical moment arrived; the theatre was full, and the receipts fabulously large for that place. They beganTrente Ans, and I didn't know a single line of the rôle of Georges.—Well! I played it like an angel! The townspeople, as they didn't know the play, had no suspicion that I was substituting my own words for the author's; my fellow actors opened their eyes; but when they got confused, I pushed them so hard that they had to speak. In a word, the play came to an end amid tremendous applause; I was recalled, and acclaimed to the skies. The manager embraced me and told me that I was engaged. At that moment, a letter was handed him; it was from his acrobat, who told him that his father had summoned him to Pithiviers to help prepare an unusually large order of pies, and that he was going at once. My manager was in despair. He had promised a performance on the trapèze, and the audience expected it; if he failed to give it, they would have the right to demand their money back, and he wouldn't have given it back for anything under heaven. Seeing the manager's embarrassment, I asked him to show me what the acrobat was supposed to do. He was to run at full speed, jump through a hoop covered with paper, and come out on the other side high enough in the air to seize a rope which hung down a little beyond the hoop. 'Is that all?' I asked, with a scornful laugh; 'why, that's a merepons asinorum! I do much more than that when I toy with gymnastics. Be calm; give me the tights, and I'll show you some jumping that will be quite equal to that of your Pithiviers tumbler!'—The manager leaped on my neck, informed me that he doubled my salary,—which did not compromise him much, as he had not as yet offered meanything,—then went and told the orchestra to play the Tartar March while I was dressing; after that, he would have an announcement to make to the audience. He went to the front of the stage, bowed, and announced that his acrobat had accidentally sprained a ligament, and that the artist who had just played the part of Georges would take his place. Everybody praised me to the skies. 'What a man!' they said; 'he takes Frédérick's rôles and Léotard's at the same time!'—Meanwhile, I was doing my utmost to get into the acrobat's flesh-colored tights. I had great difficulty, for they were terribly scant for my rotund form; however, I got into them at last. The three blows were struck; the orchestra played the triumphal march fromLa Muettefor me; I appeared, and was greeted with uproarious applause. To show my elasticity, I executed three handsprings before the audience; at the third, I tore my tights horribly, and showed them something besides my elasticity. However, that did not deter me; and the audience, thinking that I had another costume under my tights, and that I was making a lightning change in full view, applauded all the louder. That encouraged me, excited me! I ran onto the springboard, and jumped through the paper hoop; but, meaning to seize the rope as I came down, I jumped too high, and seized nothing but one of the wings, which came tumbling to the stage with me, and the fall dislocated my knee; that put an end to the performance.
"I must do the manager justice; I had hurt myself in order to oblige him, and he had my injury attended to; the surgeon went about it so skilfully that I shall limp all my life. Thus the theatrical career was closed to me, for you can't play Buridan or Kean with a limp. By way of compensation, the manager offered me the post ofprompter. I accepted. 'Prompting isn't acting,' I thought. 'But as I can't act any more, I may as well prompt! it's a theatrical post; and although the audience doesn't see you, still you're a useful member of the cast, for you sometimes play all the parts.'—So I became prompter to the troupe; I was not discontented, for, after my accident, they gave a performance for my benefit, which was quite a success. I had passed more than a month in that position, when—I may as well confess it—my fatal passion for practical jokes attacked me with more violence than ever. We had a young fellow for the lovers' parts, who claimed that he had never made a mistake in his lines. One evening, when I was in rather a merry mood, our lover was on the stage with a princess with whom the plot required him to run away; and when she said to him, weeping bitterly: 'What are you going to do with me?' he looked at me and motioned to me to help him; so I whispered: 'Oh! how you tire me!'—and the poor devil made that reply to the princess. You can imagine the effect that produced; the audience laughed and yelled, and shoutedencore!and the actress who took the princess's part boxed her lover's ears, with a: 'Let that teach you not to say such things to me on the stage.'
"Thejeune premiersucceeded, not without difficulty, in justifying himself; it was discovered that I was the only culprit, and the result was my dismissal. I returned to Paris, where I am reduced to the necessity of prompting in what used to be the suburbs.—That's my story, and this is what I have come to!"
"Pardieu! my poor Dodichet," said Dubotté, "it would seem as if this ought to have cured you, at last, of your mania for practical jokes."
"What would you have, noble Phœbus? that seems to have been my real vocation. But here comes our fourth man. Bless my soul! he must have arrived; for he has a most radiant expression, and there's a great change in his dress as well as in his face."
In truth, Lucien Grischard, who had just entered the café, was no longer the poverty-stricken youth, in a threadbare coat, with traces of grief and privation on his pinched features. To-day, his eyes were bright, and the expression of his face announced the contentment of his mind; his costume, while not dandified, denoted that its owner was in comfortable circumstances; lastly, his face wore a cordial smile, as he shook hands with the three persons whom he joined, and who had already noted with pleasure the happy change that had taken place in him.
"Good-morning, messieurs, good-morning!" he said, with a joyous intonation in his voice. "I am the last to come, but you will forgive me when you know what has detained me."
"How are you, Lucien? This much we see already, with the greatest pleasure—that your position has changed for the better; for you seem perfectly content; we can read that in your face."
"And why should I not be, messieurs! I am going to marry the woman I love. In a week, Juliette will be my wife. Monsieur Mirotaine has consented at last to call me his son-in-law. My dearest wish is fulfilled."
"How did you succeed in gaining your end? Tell us about it."
"By hard work and perseverance; my pins were a success, and I was making money; I invented something else, so that I made still more, and I succeeded in extending my business. But how was I to let MonsieurMirotaine know that, when he had forbidden me to go to his house? That was the difficulty; it was absolutely necessary that I should see Juliette, in order to tell her all that I was doing; it was necessary to have a definite understanding with her, and to give her precise details concerning my position and prospects, so that she could say to her father: 'You can go to this place and that place, and there you will learn where Lucien stands.'—Luckily, Juliette has a friend, who came to our assistance. This friend obtained permission quite often to take Juliette out with her, sometimes to bathe, sometimes to go shopping; but, as a matter of fact, the two ladies would meet me at the Jardin des Plantes; there I could arrange with Juliette what she was to say to her father about my position."
"At the Jardin des Plantes!" interposed Adhémar; "you say those ladies used to meet you there?"
"To be sure. And one day, when I had some very good news to tell Juliette,—I wanted to tell her that I had succeeded in a new business undertaking,—as she was not very well, her friend, Madame Dermont, was kind enough to come alone to our usual place of meeting. I told her that I had succeeded, and she lost no time in going to tell Juliette the good news; and it was then that Monsieur Mirotaine, convinced at last that we were not imposing on him and that I really was able to earn money, opened his house to me again, and consented to give me his daughter's hand."
Dubotté and Dodichet congratulated Lucien. But Adhémar did not say a word to him; for what he had just heard had produced such a revolution in his whole being, that he was like one turned to stone, and had not the strength to speak.
"Well!" said Dubotté, rising and taking his hat; "it is a satisfaction to me to know that we have all arrived at the goal we had in view. Poor Dodichet alone has steadily fallen lower and lower. Though, after all, it's his own fault! He shouldn't have prompted a lover to say: 'Oh! how you tire me!'—But, no matter; you know my address, Dodichet, don't you? And when you are—cleaned out, come and dine with me; I always have a cover laid for an old friend who is in hard luck. Excuse me for leaving you, messieurs; but I must go and make sure that Callé can take my wife to the theatre to-night."
Dubotté having departed, Dodichet prepared to follow his example.
"No, indeed I wont go and dine with him!" he said. "If I should ever be too hard up, I wouldn't apply to him. There are some people whose benefactions are too heavy a load to carry. Au revoir, messieurs! I have eleven acts to prompt to-night, and I must go to my post—or my hole—it's the same thing. I sometimes am tempted to take a syringe with me and prompt with that. That would be a good joke. I think I'll wait till they playPorceaugnac."
"I don't ask you to dinner, Dodichet," said Lucien, "but I shall never forget that you tried to help me. If you ever find yourself without employment, come to see me; I shall always be able to find you something at which you can earn your living."
"Thanks, my boy; a little tobacco with it, and it will be all right."
"My purse is at your service, Dodichet," said Adhémar.
"I know it; I know you, my friend! But I am going to try to take care of myself. Besides, I am very fondof snails now, and they're cheap. I have a mind to raise them in my hole; that will give me something to do in the entr'actes. Au revoir, my children!"
When he and Adhémar were left alone, Lucien said:
"You haven't congratulated me on my good fortune, on my approaching marriage. You have a very unhappy look; and yet I know you too well not to be sure that you are glad for my happiness."
"Yes, Lucien; yes, I am, indeed! But if you knew what it has cost me! So it was you whom Madame Dermont went to the Jardin des Plantes to meet?"
"To be sure. Juliette wasn't able to come that day."
"Did Nathalie come in a cab?"
"Yes, she left the cab at the gate; I took her back to it and put her in, after thanking her for her kindness in coming."
"Oh! my friend, if you had only told me this sooner! I should not have suspected a woman whom I adored."
"I couldn't tell you any sooner, as you had gone to England. I couldn't go there after you! So you are at odds with Madame Dermont again, are you?"
"Yes. My infernal jealousy! I wrote her a letter—which was utterly without sense! I see it now."
"Have courage! she will forgive you."
"Oh, no! it's all over; she can't forgive me again; indeed, I feel that I don't deserve to be forgiven."
"Adieu, my dear Adhémar! excuse me for leaving you so soon. But Juliette is waiting for me, and we have so many preparations to make for our marriage."
"Go, my friend, go! Because I am unhappy, I have no wish to delay the happiness of other people."
Adhémar returned home alone. What he had learned, while it proved to him that he had wrongfully suspected Madame Dermont's loyalty, caused him more pleasure than pain, none the less; he was grieved, he was in despair, because he had broken his repeated promises and had had no confidence in Nathalie's love; but he was happy, very happy, to know that she had not deceived him, and to be able to say to himself: "She did love me!" So that, even in his grief, there was a something that made his heart beat joyously, and that allayed in some degree the bitterness of his regrets.
On reaching home, Adhémar attempted to work. But it is very difficult to write novels or plays when the heart is full, when a single thought forces itself constantly on the mind. As he reflected on what his three friends and himself had done during the past year, he thought:
"Proverbs are always right: little streams make great rivers; for the little streams act with equal effect for our good or our ruin. Philémon Dubotté had a wife who adored him, who would have liked to be always on his arm; instead of congratulating himself because he had found a phœnix, he was always on the lookout for opportunities to go about without his wife; he ridiculed her affection; he left her evening after evening alone with a young man, who was infinitely more agreeable to her than her husband was. All these ill-advised acts werethe little streams which were certain to bring about the result which husbands ought, by every means, to try to avoid.
"Lucien Grischard was without means; but he had the most useful, the most reliable of all the elements of fortune: courage, perseverance, love of work. By dint of patience and privation, he succeeded in starting a small business, in making himself known, and in winning esteem by his probity; little by little, he has extended his connections and increased his business, and, insignificant as it was at first, he has made it lucrative. All these little streams have carried him on to his goal—to happiness. He has well earned it!
"Dodichet had everything that might make a man happy: sufficient means, health, and high spirits. But an unfortunate mania, an incessant inclination to make sport of others, to play practical jokes on his friends and acquaintances, led him into a path where he began by spending all that he possessed, and ended by living at the expense of other people. He was so incapable of behaving decently in any sort of position that he actually found a way to lose his place as prompter at a provincial theatre; and now he is reduced to poverty, as the result of all these follies piled one upon another, which some day will carry him off to the great river. For theseblagueurswho are so agreeable in society often end in that way.
"As for myself—ah, me! if I am unhappy now, I have only myself to blame for it. After many unimportant liaisons, I met such a woman as I had dreamed of, and I had the good fortune to be loved by her; at last I knew that true, genuine love, which is so sweet to the heart; that love which leaves so far behind all those madpassions of a moment in which our youth is drowned. I was happy, ah! yes, very happy! But my infernal jealousy gave me no rest. Having been deceived a hundred times by women who did not know the meaning of love, I could not persuade myself that a woman was really faithful to me. My suspicions were unjust; that was proved to me several times, and yet it did not prevent me from conceiving new ones. These insults, so often repeated, have lost me Nathalie's heart. She has forgiven me many times, but I cannot hope that she will forgive me again, after that letter, in which, in my frenzy, I did not hesitate to tell her that her treachery was shameful, when her only purpose was to ensure Juliette's and Lucien's happiness! And I went off, without seeing her, without even asking her to explain her conduct! Oh! ghastly effects of jealousy! I had promised so solemnly to mend my ways; and, instead of that, I kept repeating my offence! Oh! I did not deserve to be loved sincerely!"
And Adhémar, whose arm was resting on his desk, laid his burning head on his hand; and would perhaps have remained a long while in that position, had he not felt the touch of a little hand upon his shoulder, while a well-known voice said to him:
"And yet, she loves you still, monsieur!"
The words echoed in the depths of the poor fellow's heart. He raised his head: Nathalie was beside him, smiling at him and looking into his face as lovingly as ever.
He uttered a cry, and stammered:
"Is it possible? Can it be that you forgive me again?"
"Yes, my friend, I must. Look—at that scar—the burn on your wrist—— You see that I must forgive you always!"
"Great God! I am afraid that my happiness is a dream."
"No, monsieur. Lucien came just now and told me how sad and unhappy you were. I thought that you were punished enough, so I came. Did I do wrong?"
"Oh! how good you are! Really I do not deserve to be loved like this!"
"Are you going to begin again?"
"Oh! this time, Nathalie, I swear——"
"Don't swear! Believe me, oaths amount to nothing. It ought not to be necessary to promise, in order to do what is right."
And now, readers, do you wish to know what has become of the small number of persons who have played a part in this simple study of contemporary manners?
First, Dubotté has continued to be perfectly content; his wife is no longer constantly clinging to his arm, but lets him go out alone as much as he pleases. Sometimes, indeed, she refuses to go with him; she has taken a great fancy to the game of bézique, and young Callé is always ready to come and play with her.
Lucien Grischard, on becoming Juliette's husband, did not cease to love his wife and hard work; consequently, his business is flourishing, and his married life is one long honeymoon.
Dodichet, having conceived the droll idea of smoking in his prompter's hole, set the stage on fire and was found roasted, as a result of his last practical joke.
Monsieur Mirotaine, being unable at last to find anybody who cared to come to his evening parties in winter, where hot cocoa was served to the company, concluded to provide no other refreshment than that caused by opening the windows; but when he is invited to breakfastor dine at a restaurant, he never fails to empty the salt cellars and pepper boxes into little paper bags which he carries in his pocket.
Monsieur Brid'oison still goes into ecstasies over his son's skill and agility in gymnastics. Little Artaban never enters a salon without making a handspring, and his papa is confident that that fashion will soon be adopted by the fair sex.
Madame Putiphar, the dealer in second-hand clothes, still arranges marriages, in the interest, not of the young ladies concerned, but of the second-hand cashmere shawls which she slips among the wedding gifts.
Mademoiselle Boulotte is still trying to make mineral rouge with—no matter what!
We all have our inclinations, ourlittle streams, which bear us on, some toward good, some toward evil. We must try to avoid the latter, and follow those whose water is pure and whose banks are bright with flowers: they are the ones that lead to good.