“Has Bertrand come in?” demanded Auguste, shaking the old German’s arm; whereupon he raised his head and sent a puff of wine-laden breath into the young man’s face as he hiccoughed:
“Pertrand! sacretié! Pertrand!”
“Come, Schtrack, speak out; you were with him, weren’t you?”
“Ya.”
“Where is he?”
“Haf you not found him?”
“If I had found him, should I be questioning you? Where is he? where did you leave him? why didn’t he come home with you?”
“Sacretié! I vas not strong enough to carry Pertrand; he could not valk no more; but ve haf ein pig lot trunken.”
“So I see; but where shall I find Bertrand?”
“Ach! you vill see him quite vell; dere is no tanger! He is in a safe blace—up the street. Go up und up—near the Parrière Montmartre.”
“Is he in a wine-shop?”
“No; don’t I tell you that you vill see him quite vell?”
Unable to extract any further information from Schtrack, Auguste decided to go in search of Bertrand; he succeeded in getting the door opened, and went out in the middle of the night to try to find his faithful comrade, with no other guide than the very vague information given him by Schtrack. From Rue Saint-Georges where he lived, he went by way of Rue Saint-Lazare to Rue des Martyrs, knowing that Montmartre was Bertrand’s usual promenade.
Desiring to avail himself of the permission Auguste had given him, Bertrand had invited Schtrack to go for a walk with him. The old German did not think of refusing; and, leaving his wife in his place, he polished his boots, took his cane and accompanied friend Bertrand, who had no sooner passed the porte cochère than he began on the battle of Wagram, which was certain to take them a very long way. In fact, the battle of Wagram was still in progress when they arrived at the Buttes de Montmartre, without once stopping for a drink. Schtrack, who had thus far ventured upon nothing beyond asacretié!proposed that they should go into a wine-shop, which proposition was instantly acted upon. They found the wine very poor because they were accustomed to Dalville’s cellar, and they left that wine-shopto look for a better one. They went into another, drank another bottle, decided again that it was poor stuff and went in search of a third. After four hours of prospecting they had visited six wine-shops and drunk six bottles. When they reached the seventh, they began to think that the wine was better, or rather they were no longer in condition to pass judgment on it. Bertrand began again on his campaigns; Schtrack smoked four cigars, and it was nearly midnight when our friends were informed that it was closing time.
Bertrand paid without looking at the bill, and they left the shop; but the fresh air put the finishing touch to their intoxication. Bertrand especially, who was not accustomed to poor wine, soon felt his legs begin to wobble, and at the corner of Rue des Martyrs and Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre, he fell, reviling himself as a coward and sluggard and a wretched drinker.
Schtrack, who had kept his head better because he was used to wine-shop wine, emitted asacretié!when he saw Bertrand fall, and tried to raise him. He could not succeed. After several minutes, during which Schtrack exclaimed from time to time: “Come, come, comrade Pertrand, off we go!” the old German discovered that his companion was already snoring as if he were in his bed.
“So, so! he’s asleep!” thought Schtrack; “I must not vake him; he pe vell comfort there to sleep. Put, suppose some carriage might pass und not see mein comrade!”
This reflection disturbed Schtrack, who was quite ready to go to sleep himself; but, looking about, he saw a grocer’s shop still open. Thither he went post haste and asked for a lamp. They gave it to him, after lighting it at his request. Beacon in hand, Schtrack returned to Bertrand, who was still sleeping peacefully, stretched outby the wall. The old concierge took the sleeper’s hat, placed it beside his head with the lamp upon it, and went away, saying to himself:
“Now, there is no tanger, he can sleep in beace.”
Auguste spied the lamp, but for which he would have passed Bertrand without seeing him. The young man could not help smiling at Schtrack’s ingenious device. He shook the ex-corporal, who opened his eyes, half rose, pushed the guardian lamp away with his elbow, and could not imagine why he was in the street. Auguste explained matters to him. Bertrand, whom his nap had sobered, was distressed that he had forgotten himself to the point of falling drunk in the street, and insisted on throwing himself into the river, to punish himself for drinking so much wine. Auguste succeeded in pacifying him, and they returned home, the young man thinking of Léonie’s treachery, Athalie’s coquetry, Denise’s dissembling, and promising himself to be more prudent in future; Bertrand recalling the wretched wine at the wine-shops, and swearing that he would drink no more.
Not more than ten days had passed after Dalville’s visit to Montfermeil, when, on returning from the wine-shop one evening, Père Calleux, who probably saw double, or else did not see at all, fell into a ditch newly dug beside the road; in that ditch was a pile of stones intended for repairing the road, and the peasant broke his head upon them. The next day little Coco was an orphan.
But he still had Denise, who loved him dearly, Mère Fourcy, who had become attached to him, and lastly, the friendly interest of Auguste. Among friends who give us proofs of affection, we cease to feel quite alone on earth. How many unhappy creatures there are, who might well believe themselves to be orphans although their parents are not dead!
Denise paid a few small debts which Père Calleux had left, amounting to less than a hundred francs; for a poor man can get but little credit. The cabin remained—the child’s only patrimony; but it was in such a tumbledown condition that it was dangerous to live in it. The thatched roof was half gone, the cracked walls threatened to fall, and the materials of which it was built were so poor that no use could be made of them. So that there was really nothing but the land; but with Dalville’s contribution it would be possible to build a little cottage, surround it with a garden and cultivate it. That is what Denise said to her aunt, who replied:
“Don’t be in a hurry, my child. You’d better wait till the gentleman comes again, and ask him what he thinks.”
But at sixteen one does not like to wait; Denise reflected that it might be a very long time before the handsome gentleman came to the village again, and one morning, as she looked at the address which Auguste had left with her, and to which her eyes very often turned, she exclaimed:
“Suppose we write to that gentleman, aunt! He gave us his address, you know, so that we could send word to him if we needed him.”
“You’re right, my child,” said Mère Fourcy; “your ideas are always good. You know how to write, so you must write to him, my girl.”
Denise was lost in thought and did not reply.
“Have you forgotten how to write, my child?” continued Mère Fourcy.
“Oh! no, aunt; but I can’t write well enough to write to a gentleman from Paris.”
“In that case, my dear, get that old man to write to him, who’s just come here to live, and who writes all the nurses’ letters. He handles his pen fine, I tell you! He’ll write a sentence two pages long to tell you your child’s had the colic, or needs a new cap. Or else ask neighbor Mauflard to do you the favor; he’s an old schoolmaster, and he ought to write like a Barême’s grammar!”
Denise was still silent; but after a moment she said, lowering her eyes:
“Don’t you think, aunt, that it would be better to go to Paris and speak to the gentleman? Wouldn’t it be more polite than writing?”
“You’re right again, my child; and there’s a little stage that starts for Paris at eight o’clock every morning and brings you back at four.”
“And then, aunt, I’ve been to Paris twice, you know, and nothing ever happened to me.”
“All right, my child, go ahead; nothing ever happens to anybody unless they want it to.”
“And I’ll take Coco with me, shan’t I, aunt?”
“Yes, my dear; that will please the gentleman. It will be polite to him; and if I wasn’t so busy here, I’d go with you and ask him to give me some dinner, because I know what’s the right thing to do, you see.”
Denise was quite as well pleased that her aunt should not go with her; but she was overjoyed that she herself was allowed to go, and she ran off to engage seats for herself and Coco for the next day. The rest of that dayshe spent in preparing her dress. Coco jumped for joy when he learned that he was going in a stage to see his kind friend, and Mère Fourcy packed two pairs of chickens, two dozen eggs, some fruit and cake, in a basket, as a present for the young gentleman in Paris.
Denise was up before dawn. It was early in October; but it was a lovely day, and reminded the girl of that on which she first met Auguste. Her toilet was soon made; she wore a new dress and her daintiest cap—the one in which, on Sundays, she turned the heads of all the young men in the village, and drove the girls to despair. But would that pretty cap have the same power in Paris? Denise had no desire to make conquests; there was but one person whom she wished to please, although she said to herself a hundred times a day:
“No, no! I am not in love with him.”
Coco was dressed very neatly. Mère Fourcy gave them the basket, saying:
“Give him my compliments, and tell him to think of me when he eats the chickens, and to tell me how he likes that cake!”
Denise and Coco ran, for fear of missing the stage; at last they were safely inside, the basket between Denise’s legs, and they started for Paris.
It was not a long journey; but it seemed endless to Denise; whereas the child, delighted to be in the stage, wished that they might never arrive. However, they reached the stage office on Rue Saint-Martin in due course, and Denise, taking the basket on her arm, took Coco by the hand, and having inquired the way to Rue Saint-Georges, started in the direction of the Chaussée-d’Antin.
Denise’s beauty and her peasant costume attracted more than one compliment on the way; but the girl quickenedher pace without replying, although the basket was very heavy and Coco began to be fatigued by walking on the pavements.
When one is unfamiliar with a place, one is likely to walk farther than is necessary. Denise many times mistook one street for another; she disliked to inquire, because they to whom she applied seemed inclined to offer her their arms. She was warm and perspiring, and Coco was cross and kept saying:
“Where’s my kind friend, I’d like to know?”
They had been walking more than an hour when they found themselves at last on Rue Saint-Georges.
“Here we are, Coco,” said Denise, joyously; “here’s Monsieur Auguste’s house, and you’ll soon have a chance to embrace your kind friend! He’ll be glad to see you. Oh, yes! I’m sure he’ll give us a warm welcome.”
The child forgot his fatigue. They passed under the porte cochère, and Denise looked about in embarrassment. She could not control her emotion, and she halted with the child and her basket between two handsome stairways, uncertain which way to turn; while Coco began to cry at the top of his voice:
“My kind friend, we’ve brought you some cake and some fruit!”
“Vat’s all this how-d’ye-do?” said Schtrack, opening his door and glaring at the young woman and the child, who were standing in the middle of the courtyard. “I say, my girl, haf you come here to sell geese?”
Denise blushed, and stammered as she looked at Schtrack:
“Which way shall I go up, monsieur?”
“You mustn’t go up at all, sacretié! This is not ein boultry market. Go outside und yell mit te leedle broder.”
Schtrack was about to come forth to turn Denise and the child into the street, when Bertrand came downstairs, and was thunderstruck to see the girl.
“What! is it you, my child?—and little Coco too?”
“Yes, Monsieur Bertrand, it’s us. Oh! I’m so glad to see you! he was just going to turn us out of the house.”
“What’s that? you were going to turn this girl out, Schtrack?”
“Sacretié! why haf she not told me what she want? Te leedle poy, he bray like a tonkey in the courtyard: ‘Kind freund! kind freund! see the cakes!’—Did I know his kind freund?”
“It’s my fault, Monsieur Bertrand; I didn’t think—I was so confused. Can’t we see Monsieur Auguste?”
“Yes, indeed,” Bertrand replied with some embarrassment. “Oh, yes! you shall see him. Come upstairs with me, Mamzelle Denise.”
The girl and the child followed Bertrand, who admitted them with some precaution into Auguste’s apartment and took them at once to the small salon, saying:
“Stay here and rest, and wait a little while.”
“Has Monsieur Auguste gone out?”
“No, but he—he has company; he’s busy just at this minute.”
“Tell him we’re here, Monsieur Bertrand, and I’ll bet he’ll come right away. We won’t keep him long.”
“Yes, I’ll tell him that. But wait; I’ll be back in a minute.”
Bertrand left the salon, being careful to close the door behind him. Denise examined the fine furniture and pictures with which the room was embellished, and Coco lay on a couch. But the moments passed and nobody came. The girl’s heart sank; she had secretly hoped thatAuguste would be glad to see her, and the lack of haste which he displayed in coming to her, made her fear that she had flattered herself too much.
She dared not leave the room, or even open a door. Coco had fallen asleep; the girl seated herself in a corner, refrained from making the slightest noise, in order not to wake the child, and gazed ruefully at the basket containing the gifts she had brought to the fine city gentleman.
At last Bertrand returned with a dissatisfied air, and said in an undertone:
“You are tired of waiting, aren’t you? Thunder and guns! I can understand that; but it ain’t my fault, mamzelle, because my orders before everything! I don’t know anything but my orders.”
“Isn’t Monsieur Auguste at home?”
“Oh, yes! he’s at home, but he can’t see you yet, because his orders—”
“But, Monsieur Bertrand, it isn’t polite not to come and speak to people; with us, we don’t leave our friends all alone like this.”
“Oh! it’s different in Paris, mamzelle. I know what my lieutenant promised to do to me if I disturbed him when he’s—busy; and I can’t disobey orders.”
“Then we’ll go away.”
“Wait a little longer; perhaps it won’t be very long.”
At that moment they heard sounds in the reception-room, and Mademoiselle Virginie entered the salon.
“Here I am!” she cried; “I snapped my fingers at your orders, I did! That old villain of a Schtrack didn’t want to let me come up. ‘Monsir isn’t in,’ he says. But I came on all the same.—I say! who’s this little farmer’s wench? She’s not so bad-looking! Is it on her account that Monsieur Auguste closes his door to his friends?”
Denise stared at Virginie in amazement, while Bertrand motioned to the latter to be quiet, saying in an irritated tone:
“It seems to me, mademoiselle, that when a concierge says that you can’t come up, you should respect his orders.”
“Go to the deuce with your orders! He told me there wasn’t anyone here, and he lied, you see. Bertrand, who on earth is this rustic beauty?”
“She’s a young girl from the country.”
“Pardi! I can see for myself that she don’t live on Rue Vivienne. What a sly fox he is!—What is she here for? Is it her young one asleep on the couch? The devil! he’s quite a big boy already!”
“This is a most respectable young woman, mademoiselle; she came to bid Monsieur Dalville good-day, and brought this child, that he thinks a great deal of. There isn’t the slightest harm in that.”
“All right! so much the better, if there’s no harm. I say! what an amusing fellow you are, Bertrand, when you put on that severe expression! It’s a fact that the girl has a very innocent look. I’m sure that her cap would be mighty becoming to me.”
During this conversation, which was carried on in undertones, Denise kept her eyes on the floor; she saw that Mademoiselle Virginie looked at her a great deal, and that redoubled her embarrassment.
“Why on earth does Monsieur Dalville keep this sweet child waiting?” said Virginie, assuming an affable air and approaching Denise.
“Because monsieur is busy and told me not to disturb him.”
“Ah, yes! I understand, I comprehend!Ask me no more!”
Bertrand motioned to her to be silent; but she sat down beside Denise, paying no attention to the ex-corporal.
“Have you come far, mademoiselle?”
“From Montfermeil, madame,” replied Denise timidly. The word madame seemed to flatter Virginie, who threw her head back and tried to assume a dignified bearing, as she rejoined:
“Montfermeil? that’s in the direction of Sceaux, I believe?”
“No, madame, it’s near Raincy.”
“Ah, yes! to be sure; I was mixed up. Is the little fellow asleep yonder your brother?”
“No, madame, he’s a poor little orphan, that Monsieur Auguste is taking care of.”
“The deuce! does Auguste do that kind of thing? That’s very fine of him, and I am glad to hear it; it gives him a higher place in my esteem.—And you want to see Auguste, do you?”
“Yes, madame; Coco’s father has just died, and I wanted to consult Monsieur Dalville.”
“What have you got in that basket?”
“Some little presents from our place—eggs and chickens, and some cake that my aunt made herself.”
“Oh! I’m awfully fond of village-made cake! Will you let me taste it, my young village maid?”
Denise would have preferred to present the cake untouched to Auguste; but she dared not refuse Mademoiselle Virginie, who instantly opened the basket and broke off a big piece, which she proceeded to eat, continuing the conversation meanwhile.
“I’m very much afraid, my dear, that you’ve come here for nothing.”
“Why so, madame?”
“Oh! that ne’er-do-well will let you cool your heels here till to-morrow morning.”
“Who, madame?”
“Why, Auguste, to be sure! The cake is fine, and the butter delicious. It reminds me of my childhood; I used to eat cake like this every night; I bought it for four sous at the little shop on Boulevard Saint-Denis, where there’s always a line waiting; it’s famous for this cake.—To go back, I was saying, my dear, that Dalville is undoubtedly with some hussy or other, and that’s why we can’t speak to him.”
“What! do you think so, madame?”
“Oh! I’m sure of it! Do you suppose I don’t know all about it? Bertrand’s embarrassment, and the concierge’s orders. In fact, it’s a most surprising thing that he let you come up.”
“It was Monsieur Bertrand who made him let me in; if it hadn’t been for him, I should have been sent away.”
“For my part, it’s all a matter of indifference to me; I look on Auguste as my brother now. But you are pale, my child! Don’t you feel well?”
“Yes, madame, I’m all right.”
“How lucky you are, my child, to be virtuous, and not to know anything about the passions! Always retain this innocence.—Bertrand, can’t you see that this cake is choking me? For heaven’s sake, give me something to drink, and this child will take something too.”
“No, thank you, madame.”
“Ah! the little fellow’s waking up!”
Coco opened his eyes and looked about in amazement; then ran to Denise, saying:
“Where’s my kind friend?”
“Oh! I guess we shan’t see him,” said the girl, in a tremulous voice, looking at the clock, which marked thequarter-past three, then turning her eyes on Bertrand with an imploring expression, as if to urge him to call Auguste.
“He’s a pretty little fellow,” said Virginie, passing her hand over Coco’s head. “I’d like to have a child like him, because a child gives one a respectable look.”
A bell rang in the next room.
“Monsieur is calling me,” said Bertrand; and he hurried from the salon. At the same moment little Tony ran rapidly downstairs to put the horse in the cabriolet.
Denise expected every minute to see Auguste come in. Virginie was playing with Coco. At last Denise recognized Dalville’s voice, speaking earnestly to Bertrand, and in a moment the young man entered the salon. But he had his hat on his head, his gloves in his hand, and seemed in a great hurry. The girl ran to meet him, with the child, taking her basket in her hand.
“Good-afternoon, Denise! good-afternoon, my boy!” said Auguste, kissing the child and taking no notice of Virginie. “Have you been waiting for me? I am very sorry that I can’t stay with you now.”
“Monsieur, my aunt sends you her respects,” said Denise, “and these chickens, eggs, pears, and——”
“Thanks, Denise, thanks! I——”
“Pray, come, monsieur; I am waiting!” said a woman’s voice impatiently in the reception-room—a voice which strongly resembled Madame de la Thomassinière’s.
“Adieu, adieu! I will see you again,” said Auguste to Denise.
And, giving her no time to reply, he hastily left the room, closing the door behind him, and went out of the house with a young woman enveloped in a great shawl and covered with a thick veil, who shrank out of sight on the back seat of the cabriolet.
Denise stood perfectly still, basket in hand; but great tears rolled from her eyes, and the basket would have dropped, had not Virginie, who had drawn near, saved it as she caught the girl in her arms.
“Well, well! what on earth’s the matter with you, my dear? On my word! she’s really crying! Mon Dieu! is she going to faint?—Bring me something, Bertrand!—The idea of being unhappy just for a man, my dear girl! God bless me! they ain’t worth the trouble! If you knew ‘em as well as I do! I admit that Monsieur Auguste wasn’t very polite, to hardly answer you and not even thank you!—Ah! her color’s coming back a little.—It really scared me to see you like that!”
Denise took out her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and called Coco.
“Come, my dear, let’s go,” she said; “we must go back to the village.”
“Ain’t my kind friend coming with us?” said Coco, as he took Denise’s hand.
“Oh, no! he hasn’t even time to speak to us. Come, Coco, let’s go. We must be at the stage office at four.”
“I’ll show you the way, my dear,” said Virginie; “you might lose yourself in Paris.”
“I was going to offer you my arm, mamzelle,” said Bertrand.
“No, thanks, Monsieur Bertrand, don’t put yourself out; it isn’t necessary.”
“Why not, Mamzelle Denise?”
“We’ll find the way all right. As for Monsieur Auguste, tell him we won’t trouble him any more.”
“You’re wrong to be put out with him, Mamzelle Denise; if somebody hadn’t been waiting for him——”
“Yes, to be sure,” said Virginie, “it was very polite of him: to not so much as thank this pretty child for herpresent! magnificent chickens, fine pears, and fresh eggs! Fresh eggs are so good! Will you allow me to put three in my bag for my breakfast to-morrow?”
“As many as you please, madame,” said Denise; “for I see very clearly that Monsieur Auguste cares very little indeed for what we took so much pleasure in bringing him.”
“I tell you, my dear, that men ain’t worth a pirouette,” said Virginie, putting four eggs into her reticule; then she followed Denise, who left the room with the child, refusing Bertrand’s escort.
Madame Saint-Edmond was coming upstairs with a young man at the moment that Denise, with a heavy heart and red eyes, left Dalville’s apartment, leading Coco by the hand. Léonie was furiously angry with Auguste since he had left her in a swoon on the landing, to go in search of Bertrand. Having abandoned the hope of renewing her relations with him, she seized every opportunity to annoy him. That is the way in which a woman who has never loved always takes her revenge.
When she saw the peasant girl coming from Dalville’s apartment, Madame Saint-Edmond stopped, looked at her with a sneer, and said to her companion:
“Ah! rather a queer rig; but she has come here to be educated, no doubt.”
“What’s that, what does she say?” cried Virginie, who was following Denise, and had overheard Léonie’s last words; but the latter hurried upstairs.
“I don’t know,” said Denise; “I never saw the lady before, so she couldn’t have been speaking to me.”
“Oh! I know her,” said Virginie, running up a few stairs and looking after Léonie. “Oh, yes! I know her. I don’t advise her to put on airs.We won’t go to the forest again without paying for our dinner.”
But Madame Saint-Edmond had already entered her room and closed her door. Virginie left the house with Denise, to whom she had taken a fancy; and she fairly forced her to take her arm for the walk to the stage office.
Denise was depressed and replied briefly to the innumerable questions which Virginie asked her; but she was perfectly well able to carry on a conversation all alone. When they arrived at the office, the stage was ready to start. Virginie kissed Denise and said to her:
“Adieu, my dear! Don’t be downcast like this. You’re very lucky to live in the country; it’s a thousand times better than this rascally Paris! You’ll find more lovers in your village than you want. I say! is that the stage? It’s a regular little chamber-pot like the one that goes to Saint-Denis. When I have time, I’ll come and see you, and you must teach me how to make butter. Adieu, my dear girl.—Be careful, driver, and don’t get upset; remember that you have a Love in your little pot.”
Denise and Coco started for home less cheerful than when they set out. The event often falsifies our hopes, and we find pain where we had thought to find pleasure.
“Poor Denise was very downhearted when she went away,” said Bertrand to Auguste on the day following the girl’s trip to Paris.
“I was very sorry indeed not to be able to talk with her any longer,” Dalville replied; “but it wasn’t my fault—that lady was waiting for me.”
“That lady! That lady might perhaps have waited a few minutes more.”
“Bertrand!”
“Excuse me, lieutenant; the fact is, I was really distressed to see you hardly speak to that girl, at whose home we were treated so hospitably. Just remember the welcome they gave us, and how delighted they were to see you!”
“Oh! I haven’t forgotten it.”
“You didn’t even thank her for her present!”
“I didn’t see it. But we will go to the village soon, and I will make up for my neglect. I am to dine at Madame de la Thomassinière’s to-day, Bertrand; there will be a lot of people, and a large party in the evening. Probably I shall not come home until morning. By the way, make a memorandum to the effect that I have lent a hundred louis to Monsieur le Marquis de Cligneval, who was very unlucky at cards a day or two ago, at a house where I happened to be; he is to pay me very soon.”
Bertrand did not reply; but as he went to the cash-box he muttered:
“More money that we shall never see again! He’s forever lending, and no one ever pays him back!”
Monsieur de la Thomassinière, whose fortune increased every day, determined to celebrate his wife’s birthday by a grand demonstration. The invitations had been issued a week in advance. There was every indication that the banquet would be the most sumptuous that the speculator had ever given. He expected to have at his table marquises and chevaliers who deigned to call him their friend; poets who had promised to mention him in their works; and some old acquaintances whom he expected to overcome by the magnificence of the festivity. Monsieur and Madame Destival were in the last category.
Everybody was in motion in Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s palatial mansion. The upholsterers had decorated the salons, prepared the chandeliers and candelabra. The servants flew hither and thither carrying orders; the scullions obeyed the behests of their commander. Three women were in attendance on madame, who had been at her toilet since three o’clock, and it was now five. But Athalie was fickle in her tastes: the thing that pleased her one day displeased her the next day; she had already cast aside two caps, in which she declared that she was hideously ugly; she lost her patience, raged, stamped, tore a superb piece of tulle, pulled a bouquet to pieces, scolded her women, and was on the verge of hysteria because they brought her a set of blue jewelry when she wanted violet. At last they succeeded in pacifying her by assuring her that her hair was arranged to perfection; she deigned to look at herself in the mirror, scowled at first, then smiled, and said at last:
“It is true; I look rather well.”
At half-past five the guests began to arrive. Monsieur de la Thomassinière, who was a little less insolent in his own house than in other people’s houses, went to meet the titled personages who had condescended to do him the honor of accepting his dinner, and deigned to bestow a smile upon those whom he had honored with an invitation.
Monsieur and Madame Destival arrived in due course. Since he had had a negro, the business agent had adopted the habit of blinking, and pretended to be very short-sighted. His wife was attired with an elegance that rivalled Athalie’s own; and her intelligent eyes seemed to assume an even more malicious expression as they rested on the master and mistress of the house.
All the guests appeared at last, Auguste among them. It was a brilliant assemblage: women of fashion, dandies,men with decorations, filled the salon, where Athalie did the honors, apportioning her courtesies to the rank or wealth of their recipients. Monsieur de la Thomassinière stalked proudly through the rooms, saying:
“This affair will make a great sensation! The marquis has promised to mention it at court; there’s a poet here, who’s a newspaper man too, and he tells me that my name will appear in an article of at least a column! My name in an article a column long! The deuce! how popular I shall be! When Destival can give a dinner like mine, I’ll agree that he can call himself somebody. Poor creatures! they are dying of envy, and I’m glad of it!”
At half-past six the company repaired to the dining-room, where the table was laid with forty covers. Monsieur Destival was seated at the lower end, between a child of six and an old deaf gentleman. He swallowed the affront, with a glance at his wife; and their eyes exchanged a meaning look in which they seemed to promise themselves a sweet revenge.
The soup had just been removed, when an uproar, evidently occasioned by people quarrelling, arose in the adjoining room.
“What does this mean? Lafleur! Jasmin! Who dares to make a disturbance in my house?” exclaimed Monsieur de la Thomassinière, calling his servants. “Send away all visitors; I am not at home to anyone; if a gold ingot should be brought to me, I wouldn’t accept it now.”
The servants seemed embarrassed, as if they dared not reply. Meanwhile the noise continued, and they could distinguish a woman’s voice crying:
“I will go in! I tell you I’m bound to go in!”
“Have that canaille turned out of doors, Lafleur,” said Monsieur de la Thomassinière angrily.
At that moment the dining-room door was violently thrown open, and a woman of some sixty years, short and stout, with a good-humored face, dressed like an orange-woman, with a round cap on her head, bounced into the room.
“Hoity-toity!” she cried; “it’d be a pretty good one if I couldn’t get into my own son’s house! What a set of donkeys them fellows be! Excuse me, messieurs and mesdames. Where be you, Thomas? Why don’t you come and gimme a kiss, my boy? Don’t you know your old mother?”
The changes of scene at the Opéra are less rapid than those that took place in that dining-room upon Mère Thomas’s entrance. Monsieur de la Thomassinière was stupefied; it was as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt and was unable to move a muscle or utter a word. The resplendent Athalie turned pale, was evidently confused, and glanced at Mère Thomas with an expression indicating that she still doubted the truth of what she heard. On each guest’s face could be read the amazement caused by this unexpected scene, together with a touch of irony and malicious satisfaction, which fell far short, however, of what Destival and his wife felt at that moment.
Mère Thomas, who took no notice of the demeanor of the guests, recognized her son among the persons seated at the table, and ran to him, saying:
“There he is! I know him! That’s him—that’s my Thomas! Oh! it’s him fast enough—with his little mole under the left eye!—You ain’t changed so much, my boy.—Well, why don’t you kiss me? Can’t you move hand or foot?”
As she spoke, the good woman seized her son’s head and kissed him several times. La Thomassinière madeno resistance; he acted like a man who did not know where he was, while Athalie cried:
“Mon Dieu! is it possible? Isn’t this a trick she’s playing on us?”
“You didn’t look to see me, my boy, eh? Ah! I should say not! This is a surprise, you see; one of your good friends, he writ to me as how it’d do you good to see your mother, and told me I’d better try to get here this very day, ‘cos it’s your wife’s birthday.”
At this point the guests looked at one another, trying to divine who it was who had arranged this surprise for Monsieur de la Thomassinière; and among those who were not responsible there were some who regretted that it had not suggested itself to them. As for the master of the feast, he was still too completely crushed by the blow that had been dealt him, to attend to what his mother said; and Athalie seemed to be on the point of swooning.
“So at that,” continued Mère Thomas, “I says to myself, says I: ‘Off we go!’ I had a bit of money put by, and that paid for my seat in the diligence, where we was packed together as tight as herrings, saving your presence, messieurs and mesdames; and here I be in Paris, where you’ve feathered your nest so well!”
The Marquis de Cligneval, who was seated opposite Monsieur de la Thomassinière, determined to put an end to the embarrassment of his host, upon whose purse he drew too freely not to be ready to shut his eyes to the lowly condition of his parents. So he hastened to intervene, and observed pleasantly:
“It is really very amiable on your excellent mother’s part to surprise you like this. She was in such haste that she came in rather a négligé costume. But what does it matter? you are among your friends. Pray let her sitbeside me; I shall be delighted to make her acquaintance. She has a most venerable face—a Greek profile. I am very fond of country people; they have such delightful dispositions.”
La Thomassinière looked at the marquis with an expression which signified: “You have saved my life!” while Mère Thomas exclaimed:
“What’s that he says—I came in négligé. But you’re wrong, my boy; I put on my Sunday best.”
“Hush! hush, mother, for heaven’s sake!” whispered La Thomassinière. “Be careful; you’re speaking to a marquis.”
“A what? What did you say, Thomas?—But I say, where’s my darter-in-law? Show her to me, my boy; wouldn’t she like to give her man’s mother a kiss?”
“Madame de la Thomassinière, pray embrace your mother-in-law,” said Madame Destival, with a mocking glance at Athalie.
“I can’t stand it any longer! I am dying!” murmured Athalie in an expiring voice; and she fell over upon Auguste, who was seated next her.
“My wife has fainted!” cried La Thomassinière, overjoyed by an incident which might divert the attention of the company; and he sprang to his feet and rushed toward his wife, who was already surrounded by several people.
“Oho! is that your wife, that bleating little minx?” exclaimed Mère Thomas. “She’s ate too much, my boy; she’s got the indigestion, sure enough. Just give her a drink of brandy—that’ll settle her stomach.”
Someone gave Athalie smelling salts; she was taken into the fresh air; but she was careful not to recover consciousness. Mère Thomas pushed away two petites-maîtresses who were aiding her daughter-in-law, saying:
“Look out, my little darlings, you’re stifling the child. Bless me! if you want to bring her to right off, I know what’ll do it; two or three slaps on the backsides—that’ll bring a woman to in short order; it never fails.”
The ladies exchanged glances and moved away from Madame Thomas, saying to one another:
“This is shocking! it is getting to be unbearable.”
“She amuses me immensely, my dear.”
“For my part, she makes me blush; whenever she opens her mouth I tremble for fear that some disgusting remark will come out.”
“She has begun well.”
“This is a hysterical attack,” said La Thomassinière; “madame must be taken to her room. They always last two or three hours, at least.”
“Well, well! that’s very nice!” said Mère Thomas.
The hostess was taken to her room, and she vowed to herself that she would not leave it so long as Madame Thomas should be in the house.
However, for most of the guests the dinner was the most essential thing, and Madame de la Thomassinière had no sooner been taken from the dining-room than they all resumed their places at the table, with such remarks as: “It won’t amount to anything; it isn’t dangerous.” All of which meant: “We have paid enough attention to the hostess, who thought it best to faint; now let’s think of our stomachs, and not neglect any longer the delicious dishes that have been prepared for us.”
La Thomassinière would gladly have followed his wife; but he realized that it would be discourteous to leave his guests, with whom he had already changed his tone. So he returned to his seat, cudgelling his brain to devise a method of imposing silence on his dear mother.Destival, meanwhile, fearing that Madame Thomas might be spirited away, offered her his hand to escort her to her seat by the marquis. Mère Thomas accepted his hand with a: “Thank ‘ee, my man,” and planted herself on a chair beside Monsieur de Cligneval.
“Now, my spark, I don’t need your hand no more,” she said to her escort; “when it comes to forks and teeth, I can go it alone, friend.”
“She is overflowing with wit!” cried the marquis; “really, her repartees are delicious!”
La Thomassinière, who was afraid to raise his eyes, tried to hurry the dinner. But his guests did not support him; they were very comfortable at table and did full honor to the feast. The marquis stuffed Mère Thomas; he kept her plate constantly filled, hoping that that would stop her chatter; but she was a shrewd old girl, who could do two things at once. While she was eating, she kept repeating:
“Dieu! how good this is! What a finefricot! I ain’t never ate anything as tasted like this! I say, Thomas, my boy, we don’t make such good fricassees to our little cabaret at the sign of the Learned Ass! Do you remember, boy?”
“Who wants some truffles? who hasn’t any truffles?” cried Monsieur de la Thomassinière, trying to drown his mother’s voice. But Madame Destival, who had heard every word, inquired:
“What do you say, madame? Did Monsieur de la Thomassinière ever keep a cabaret?”
“La Thomassinière!” echoed Mère Thomas, emptying her glass. “Who’s that, my heart?”
“Your son, madame.”
“What! don’t you call yourself Thomas no more, my son? So that’s what all them green monkeys stitchedwith gold, in your outside room, meant when they said this wa’n’t where you lived! What have you dropped your father’s name for, Thomas? Didn’t it sound good enough for you? Let me tell you he was an honest man, who sold wine for six sous a litre without putting any drugs in it, like your swindlers in Paris!—Excuse me, friends.”
“Monsieur your son calls himself La Thomassinière now,” said the marquis, “from the name of an estate that he has bought. That is the custom in Paris; he hasn’t changed his name but he has lengthened it a little; it’s pleasanter to the ear.”
“Yes, to be sure,” said La Thomassinière, trying to recover his self-assurance. “When one has made a fortune asconsequentialas mine, one is at liberty to forget. Besides, as monsieur le marquis says, it’s done every day.”
“Oh! that makes a difference,” rejoined Mère Thomas, “if you’ve been a-buying estates. That’s worse than the Marquis de Carabas. But for all that, my boy, you’d ought to sent for me to come to see you sooner; for I’ve been just a little bit homesick down to our place; it’s a regular hole, and I couldn’t have such a devil of a spree with the two hundred francs you send me every year.”
“Mon Dieu! how outrageous!” cried a lady wearing a cap adorned by a bird-of-paradise, pushing her chair away from the table; while the gentlemen glanced at one another, laughing, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière stretched his feet under the table trying to find those of his excellent mother, who sat opposite him, and to whom he vainly made signals to urge her to be quiet.
“What struck that party?” said Mère Thomas, staring at the lady in the cap. “Is she going to faint too? What’s she making faces at me for, with that tail of a kite on her head?”
“Mother, I implore you!” said La Thomassinière, moving his feet frantically.
“Down! down, I say! there’s dogs under the table, boy. Here’s two or three on ‘em running atween my legs. Tell someone to give ‘em something to eat, so they’ll leave us alone. Give me a drink! Who’s going to fill my glass? you, old boy?”
It was the marquis to whom this question was addressed; he took a decanter of madeira that stood before him and filled the glass of his neighbor, who always refused to drink without touching glasses.
“What’s this yellow wine, my boy?”
“Madeira, madame.”
“Pretty good, eh?”
“Perfect! it’s the best I ever drank.”
“Here’s your health then, my buck; and yours, old fox!”
The last remark was addressed to Madame Thomas’s left hand neighbor, an old chevalier, with his hair curled and powdered in the style in vogue during the Regency, who seemed extremely ill-pleased to be seated beside Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s mother. He turned his head whenever she looked at him, and did not answer when she spoke to him. This time Madame Thomas held her glass over the old fellow’s plate, so that it was impossible for him to avoid replying, and he muttered disdainfully:
“I don’t drink, madame.”
“Ah! you don’t drink, don’t you, old bean-pole? Well then, you can go without, that’s all. You needn’t put on so many airs; you look as pleasant as a bad clove!—Your health, my son, and yours, messieurs, mesdames, and the whole company; and yours, too, you green monkey, as didn’t want to let me in.”
This compliment was aimed at Lafleur. Monsieur de la Thomassinière beat his brow in despair, while the marquis repeated till he was hoarse:
“Excellent! excellent! The old patriarchal custom—to drink everybody’s health. Noah’s children always touched one another’s glasses.”
Madame Thomas tossed off the glass of madeira at a swallow; but when she had drunk it, she made a wry face and glared at the marquis, crying:
“God! what vile stuff your madeira is! Bah! it tastes like a donkey’s water right in your mouth, my children!”
All the ladies cried out and hid their faces behind their napkins. The men laughed; and Madame Thomas, who saw nothing unnatural in what she had said and thought that they shared her amusement, caused her glass to be filled with another kind of wine; while her son sank back in his chair, muttering:
“I am a ruined man!”
The more Madame Thomas drank, the more loquacious she became. In vain did the marquis fill her plate, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière call to his servants: “Serve monsieur! Remove madame’s plate!” the stout old lady’s voice soared above those of all her fashionable neighbors, for people of fashion are not in the habit of speaking loud.
The old gentleman with the pigeon’s wings, whom Madame Thomas had called a clove, could not digest that insult; he scowled terribly, tried to turn his back on his neighbor, and muttered:
“It’s abominable to invite people like myself to compromise their dignity with such riff-raff! Gad! if they ever catch me here again! I am terribly distressed that I came.”
For all that, the old chevalier did not go away, but ate and drank for four, by way of compensation for the annoyance that he felt.
Mère Thomas wanted some of everything, she called for all the dishes that she saw, and she would say to the marquis:
“What’s that, my fine little fellow?”
“Poulet à la Marengo, madame.”
“My soul! how it’s disguised! Never mind, just pass me a wing.—And what’s that black stew over yonder?”
“A salmi of partridgeaux truffes.”
“That must be heating; but give me a bit of yoursalmigondis aux truffes, I’ll take the chances.—and that big dish all covered over with sauce?”
“That’s aSultane à la Chantilly.”
“A sultana! The dear boy! does he take us for Turks, I wonder! Just give me a taste of that too, so that I’ll know how those miserable dogs cook.”
“You’ll make yourself ill, Madame Thomas,” said La Thomassinière in an undertone, horrified to see his mother’s eyes grow brighter and brighter, and that she insisted on tasting all the wines as well as all the dishes.
“Get out, boy, I’ve got a stomach like an ostrich! Don’t you remember the bet I made one day with our cousin as kept the eating house? A fine man, he was! He died three year ago, poor Chahû!”
“Lafleur! Jasmin! Comtois! take these plates away; serve the dessert, I say!”
In vain did Monsieur de la Thomassinière shout to his servants—his mother continued her narrative none the less:
“You must know, my children, that Chahû was one of the biggest eaters in all Brie; he was a chap with a big head, and he’d put down a turkey, saving your presence,just as slick as you or me’d swallow a lark. Bless my soul, if he didn’t take a fancy one day to bet me that he’d eat more’n me of a rabbit stew I’d made for a mason’s wedding feast. I’m a sly fox, so I took his bet; and when we’d got half through, I told him in confidence that it was cats as I’d stewed up; and at that my jackass turned up his toes and got rid of his dinner on the floor.”
The ladies refused to listen to any more; they left the table and took refuge in the salon. Monsieur de la Thomassinière was beside himself; he turned red, yellow and lead-colored in turn; the perspiration stood on his brow; he poured wine in his plate and put his fork in his glass. The young men laughed heartily, Auguste with the rest, for he was of the opinion that his host well deserved this little lesson. Destival was radiant; his eyes sparkled with delight as he looked from one person to another and finally fastened his gaze on La Thomassinière. The Marquis de Cligneval looked at his host with an expression which signified: “Gad! I’ve done what I could; but, as you see, it’s impossible to hold her back.”
“Well! what makes all them pretty females go scooting off at once?” queried Mère Thomas; “be they all going to the closet together? I say, it’s like the hens down our way: when one goes, the others have to follow.”
A young poet, who had written some verses for Madame de la Thomassinière, and who was exceedingly annoyed because Mère Thomas’s arrival, by causing Athalie to swoon and putting the ladies to flight, had prevented him from reciting his quatrain, which would, so he thought, create a sensation, said to the buxom dame, as he readjusted his collar:
“Madame, it is your fault in some degree that the Graces have fled from us.”
“What’s that you say, my little dapper?” retorted Mère Thomas, planting both elbows on the table, the better to observe the young man.
“I say, madame,” replied the poet, “that the Graces are easily frightened, and that——”
“What’s that you’re singing about your Graces! Be they birds you’re trying to tame?”
“Madame, the Graces are the ladies; the Zephyrs and the Loves fly at their heels; Pleasure and Laughter form their train and strew roses along their path.”
“Phew! what sort of a stew is that, my boy, made out of roses and rice.”[D]