“And what more wouldtht thou I thould thay to him?Author of all my i11th, thinktht thou he knowth them not?My lord, thee to what low ethtate thou dotht reduth me.I have theen my father dead, and our abode on fire;I have theen the liveth of my whole family in peril,And my blood-thtained huthband dragged amid the dutht.”
“And what more wouldtht thou I thould thay to him?Author of all my i11th, thinktht thou he knowth them not?My lord, thee to what low ethtate thou dotht reduth me.I have theen my father dead, and our abode on fire;I have theen the liveth of my whole family in peril,And my blood-thtained huthband dragged amid the dutht.”
“Poor soul! think of her seeing all that!” said the peasant women. “Is that all true, Jean-François?”
“Yes, yes! of course it’s true! Don’t she tell you she saw it?”
“My children,” said Cézarine, “if you interrupt me, I than’t be inthpired any more; a little thilence, if you pleathe.”
“I breathe again, I therve;I have done more, thometimeth I have ta’en comfortBecauthe my fate hath exiled me here and not elthwhere;Becauthe, happy in my mithery, the thon of tho many kingth,Thinthe he mutht therve, hath fallen beneath your thway;I have thought that hith prithon would become hith refuge;Of yore the conquered Priam wath by Achilleth thpared;I from hith thon e’en greater kindneth did antithipate.Forgive me, Hector dear——”
“I breathe again, I therve;I have done more, thometimeth I have ta’en comfortBecauthe my fate hath exiled me here and not elthwhere;Becauthe, happy in my mithery, the thon of tho many kingth,Thinthe he mutht therve, hath fallen beneath your thway;I have thought that hith prithon would become hith refuge;Of yore the conquered Priam wath by Achilleth thpared;I from hith thon e’en greater kindneth did antithipate.Forgive me, Hector dear——”
“Friend Pyrrhuth, pray attend to bithneth. Are you looking for thpiderth on the theiling?”
The tall youth looked toward the door, and Cézarine resumed:
“Forgive me, Hector dear——”
“Forgive me, Hector dear——”
“Thilenth, my children,” she said, pausing again; “I beg the perthon who ith thnoring tho loud to do me the favor to go.”
Cézarine was about to continue her declamation when there came another prolonged groan. All the villagers looked at one another, saying:
“Who on earth is making such a noise as that?”
“It ain’t me.”
“Nor me.”
“Nor it ain’t Père Mauflard neither.”
Another groan woke the echoes of the living-room. Terror was depicted on every face, and the peasants crowded closer together.
“Great God! what can that be?” they exclaimed.
“You are frightened at nothing at all,” said Cézarine; “it’th thome brute prowling round the yard.”
“Oh! that ain’t no brute’s voice, I tell you! it’s more like some dead man’s soul.”
“I say! perhaps it’s Jacques Ledru, as died a week ago!”
“Ain’t it more like to be the ghost of Mère Lucas, who was so ugly when she was living? Perhaps she’s bent on tormenting us still.”
To set their minds at rest, Cézarine was on the point of resuming her tirade, when the gawky youth, whose eyes were fixed on the door, uttered a horrible yell and fell from the bench, thereby causing Andromaque to fall upon him.
“What is it? what’s the matter?” cried the terrified peasants in chorus.
The tall youth, who had not the strength to speak, pointed to the door; then hid his face in his hands. All the villagers looked at the place at which he pointed: the door was thrown open, disclosing in the doorway a white phantom of extraordinary size, whose eyes flashed fire.
At that horrible sight, all the women uttered heart-rending shrieks and tumbled over one another in their haste to get away from the door. Most of the men did the same, shouting: “Let’s get out of this!” But, as they could not escape by the door, where the phantom stood on guard, they pushed one another toward the end of the room; and in the hurly-burly, chairs and benches were overturned, as well as the table that held the lamp,which fell to the floor and was extinguished. The sudden darkness added to the general alarm; those who had not seen the lamp fall thought that the phantom had caused that terrifying obscurity by his mere presence; the shrieks redoubled; it was impossible to see, they fell over one another, and everyone thought that it was the devil falling upon him. To add still more to their terror the phantom uttered blood-curdling grunts and piteous groans.
The confusion lasted several minutes, the peasants shrieking in terror and offering up prayers. Mademoiselle Cézarine alone was not heard to bewail her fate, although she too had fallen, with the tall youth. The latter had the courage to look toward the door, where he saw the gleaming-eyed phantom.
“It’s still there!” he said under his breath; “it don’t go away!”
Whereupon Mademoiselle Cézarine was heard to say in a stifled voice:
“Don’t thtir, my children, and above all thingth, don’t light any candleth, or the devil will come and carry uth off!”
Suddenly the barking of a dog was heard in the yard; it was soon followed by yells from the phantom, who was struggling with the beast and calling the peasants to its assistance.
“Mère Fourcy, call off your dog, for heaven’s sake! What an ugly beast! he’s biting my legs! Come and drive him away, Cézarine!”
That voice, which was recognized as belonging to Virginie, put an end to the terror of the peasants, who began to suspect that they had been fooled by the young ladies from Paris; to put them entirely at ease, the dog pulled off the sheet in which Virginie had envelopedherself, and took in his jaws a lantern which she had placed on her head, wrapping the sheet about it and allowing the light to shine through two small holes.
The dog raced about the room with the lantern, and the light disclosed a ridiculous tableau. The men and women were inextricably commingled, and, even without mischievous intention, the proprieties had not been altogether respected, because, when one is frightened, one conceals oneself as best one can. The position of Cézarine and the tall youth was the most equivocal; but the light of the lantern lighted the room but dimly, and there were many things which there was no time to see. They began by setting free Père Mauflard, who had a table, two benches and three nurses upon him; then the lamp was relighted and they could recognize one another. Amid the tumult Denise had remained quietly in a corner with Coco; but, on hearing Virginie’s shrieks, she flew to her assistance and helped her to rid herself of the sheet in which she was entangled.
“Why! was it you playing ghost?” inquired the young girl.
“Yes, my dear, I thought I’d act a scene from a fairy pantomime for you; and if it hadn’t been for your infernal dog, who jumped at—at the base of my back, while I was giving a groan, I’d have frightened you a great deal worse!”
“Oh! what a pity!” said Cézarine, with a languishing glance at the gawky youth, “it was so nithe! I’m very fond of fairy thenes.”
“Your fairy scene is to blame for my being all bruised up,” said Père Mauflard.
The peasants, offended because they had been made game of, refused to prolong the festivity, and left Mère Fourcy’s house, saying:
“What do fine ladies like them amount to anyway! one wants to see Père Mauflard’s drawers, and the other dresses up as a ghost; they act as if they was pretty gay girls!”
When the neighbors had gone, no one thought of anything but retiring. Virginie and her friend went to their chamber and to bed, and soon fell asleep, one nursing her bites, the other lisping that the tall young man had many of Théodore’s attributes. Mère Fourcy and Coco went to sleep also. Denise alone could obtain no rest; she thought constantly of Auguste, of the change in his fortunes, and of what she could do for him to prove her friendship. But she no longer felt any inclination to ask the advice of the ladies from Paris, because all the foolish antics in which she had seen them indulge had somewhat lessened her esteem for them. She felt that she must be guided by her heart alone; she was sure that it would never give her any advice for which she would need to blush.
The next morning, after breakfast, the ladies, being already sadly bored in the country, where they desired at first to pass a fortnight, bade Mère Fourcy and Denise adieu and took their places in the Paris coach.
“Ah! my dear,” said Virginie, “how I long to be in Paris! it seems to me that it’s six months since I saw Rue Montmartre and the Ambigu-Comique.”
“What do you think of me, who haven’t theen Théodore for twenty-four hourth!”
“Say what you will, there’s no place but Paris for fun and dress and the theatre and punch!”
“Ah! if I had to live in the country, I thould die there!”
After his visit to the old man on the fifth floor, Auguste had made a vow to be prudent and to profit by the lesson which the unfortunate Dorfeuil had unconsciously given him. But an old proverb says: “Drive away the natural, and it returns at a gallop;” and Auguste’s nature still impelled him to do foolish things. Moreover, being unable thenceforth, by reason of an instinctive delicacy for which he cannot be blamed, to seek diversion at his window, he was driven to seek it elsewhere. From his more prosperous days Auguste had retained the habit of playing the grand seigneur, of reckoning the cost of nothing, of following only his first impulse. He was as generous to the unfortunate as to his mistresses: to confer pleasure on others is such a gratifying habit that it is very hard to abandon it. There are people, however, who have never known that gratification.
Upon examining his cash-box, Bertrand had discovered the enormous deficit consequent upon Auguste’s visit to the old man. Unable to understand how his master could have spent so much money in so short a time, Bertrand concluded that they had been robbed, and made an infernal row. He proposed to go down and cudgel Schtrack and his wife, to teach them to allow thieves to enter the house; but Auguste detained him, saying:
“Don’t get excited, my dear fellow, we haven’t been robbed.”
“Why, monsieur, we had about ten thousand francs left three days ago; now I can find only seven—and you say we haven’t been robbed!”
“No, Bertrand; it was I who took the money.”
“Oh! excuse me, lieutenant; if you have got it, that’s different.”
“I don’t say that I have it; I tell you that I had a use for it.”
“A thousand crowns in three days! you’re doing well, lieutenant. I don’t quite see why we came up to the fifth floor, for you didn’t spend any more on the first.”
“I met an old friend, Bertrand,—he was in destitution.”
“We may very well be there, too, and it won’t be long either, if we go on at this rate. Excuse me, lieutenant, I know how generous you are, I know your kind heart; but still you must remember that you haven’t twenty thousand francs a year any more; and when you can’t have anything but a piece of beef for dinner, it don’t seem to me that it’s the time to give other people partridges.”
“Don’t be angry, Bertrand; I am going to be prudent—yes, miserly.”
“Miserly! nonsense, lieutenant! you’ll never have that fault! In fact, I don’t believe it would help us now.”
“I am not without prospects; I am promised a place in a government office.”
“Really?”
“With a salary of six thousand francs.”
“Impossible!”
“Quite possible, on the contrary; but you see everything in dark colors.”
“It is you who see everything in rose color, monsieur.”
“If that place should fail me, it is probable that I shall go into a banking-house, as bookkeeper.”
“Did you ever keep books, monsieur?”
“No; but what difference does that make? Do you suppose that one has to study for a place like that, as one would study mechanics? With a neat handwriting, familiarity with rates of exchange and mathematics, and a little intelligence, you can fill any sort of clerkship. I know that there are people who study two or three years to learn how to copy a letter, and others who consider themselves Archimedeses, Newtons or Galileos, because they pass their lives doing sums.”
“It seems to me, monsieur, that when a man has a place, he ought to work.”
“Very well, I will work, Bertrand; that won’t trouble me any. I have done nothing, because I had nothing to do; but the moment I have employment, you will see how ardently I will go at my work. Ah! I wish I were there now!”
“So do I, monsieur; in the first place, because you would be earning money, and in the second place, because, when a man is busy, he does fewer foolish things. Who is it who is going to get these places for you?”
“For the first one, a lovely woman, who has a cousin who’s very intimate with the minister’s secretary. Oh! I tell you, Bertrand, these women—they’re the only ones to obtain things; and, say what you will, their acquaintance isn’t always a burden; when they take a person under their protection, they go about it with such zeal, such ardor, that they can’t fail.”
“And the other place, lieutenant—is it a woman who is going to obtain that for you, too?”
“No, it’s a young man, with whom I have dined quite often—an excellent fellow, and most obliging. His uncle is partner in a bank; he has promised to speak to him about me, and the first vacant place will be given me.”
“That would come in very handily, monsieur.”
“But you must see that, in order to make yourself agreeable to those whose support you require, there is always more or less money to be spent: with the charming young woman, it’s theatre parties and little presents; with the young man, luncheons and dinners to be given him; for it isn’t fashionable to help people unless you believe them to be in comfortable circumstances.”
“I understand: one must be ruined altogether before one has any resources.”
“That is called sowing that you may reap.”
“You’ve been sowing a good long time, monsieur.”
“I tell you that within a fortnight I shall have employment.”
“When that day comes I’ll go for a walk with Schtrack.”
“Give me some money, Bertrand.”
“Money, monsieur?”
“Yes, Eugène is going to dine with me to-day; he’s the young man whose uncle is a banker. To-night I am going to call on the charmer whose cousin is to say a good word for me. There will be cards, no doubt, and if I have the look of being hard up and of being afraid to lose a few francs, people won’t condescend to look at me.”
“Ah, yes, I understand; you want money, so that you can sow.”
“Yes, my friend.”
After filling his purse, Auguste went to meet the friend with whom he had an appointment, and whom he was to entertain at dinner, together with several others who might possibly be useful to him. Dalville took his guests to one of the very best restaurants; he would have felt ashamed to dine at a place where they would have beenas comfortable and as well served at less expense, but which was not so highly considered in fashionable society. During dinner they thought of nothing but laughing and joking, and Auguste was very careful not to mention his desire for employment; that would have seemed to indicate that he was in straitened circumstances, which would produce an ill effect. Not until the dessert, while they were drinking their champagne, did Eugène say to Auguste:
“Are you still wanting something to do?”
“Why, yes; I am tired to death of idleness; I am sick of a life of pleasure.”
“That’s a good idea; work—it will be a little change for you, and it helps to reform wayward youth. My uncle will think so. I’ll speak to him about you when I see him.”
Auguste dared not say that he would like to have him make a point of seeing his uncle. The young men, having had an excellent dinner, left Auguste, making all sorts of proffers of service, and renewing their assurances of devotion; and he betook himself to the lovely woman who had promised to assist him and who was to have mentioned him to her cousin.
Ladies are beyond question better advocates than men; it certainly is easier for them to succeed, for they obtain with a smile what has been denied again and again to obscure merit, to shamefaced poverty. This fact does credit to our gallantry at least, if not to our justice, and it is in human nature to submit to be seduced by beauty.
Madame Valmont was greatly interested in Auguste, who accompanied her excellently on the piano, and sang nocturnes in her salon with excellent taste. She had kept her word by inviting her cousin that evening, in order to introduce Auguste to him. The cousin was aman of fashion, who was received in the best society; addicted to making promises freely and forgetting on the morrow what he had promised the night before; but desirous of playing the patron even when he did not patronize, and deeming himself a mortal of superior mould before whom everyone should bow.
Having listened to Auguste’s rendition of a nocturne, he informed his cousin that he sang divinely and that he would be delighted to do something for him. When he said this, the cousin expected very humble acknowledgments from Auguste; but our friend was not the man to bend the knee in order to obtain favors from anyone. The man who is conscious of his own worth never stoops to humble himself before his fellowmen, and to lavish obsequious flattery on those whose merit consists solely in their rank and wealth—very slender merit indeed in the eyes of those whose deserts are genuine, but very great in the eyes of the multitude, who prostrate themselves before fine clothes, decorations and the glitter of gold pieces, and would dance under a monkey’s window if the monkey would toss money to them.Numerus stultorum est infinitus.
Auguste, who was not of the right temperament to dance for a monkey, did not lavish compliments on the cousin with the air of beseeching his patronage; and the cousin, who was accustomed to be lauded and fawned upon by the poor devils who desired his countenance, was amazed that the young gentleman who had been commended to his attention, did not fulfil his devoirs by paying homage to him. So that he began to consider that Dalville was not such a good singer after all; and to put the finishing touch to his disgust, Auguste, who had bet on him when he took his seat at the écarté table, presumed to criticise his style of play and to try to proveto him that he lost a game by his stupidity. The cousin was exasperated, and he left his cousin’s house, declaring that the young man whom she had taken under her protection was incapable of filling the most trivial office in the service of the government.
“Well!” said Auguste to Madame Valmont, at the end of the evening, “when may I call upon the minister’s secretary?”
“Really, I don’t know what to say. My cousin did not seem very well disposed when he went away. But what a strange man you are! Instead of trying to make a favorable impression on him, you expressed an opinion contrary to his several times, you said nothing agreeable to him, and you annoyed him at the card table.”
“Oh, yes, madame, I understand: I am not worthy of an office because I did not cringe and crawl, and because I presumed to demonstrate to that gentleman that he did wrong to play his second queen.”
“I don’t say that, my dear Auguste. However, it was a mere spasm of ill-temper; I will see my cousin again and speak to him, and I still have hopes.”
“No, madame, don’t take any more trouble. I am touched by your interest in me, but I would rather be unemployed than pose as the humble servant of idiocy and self-conceit.”
Auguste went home, raging against the vanity, arrogance and pettiness of mankind. Bertrand, who was impatiently awaiting his return, called out as soon as he appeared:
“Well! what about that government office, monsieur?”
“My friend,” said Auguste, squeezing Bertrand’s hand, “we will eat black bread, we will drink water, but I will not be the lackey of men whom I despise; I will notburn incense to insolent pride and stupidity! I will not debase myself before my fellowmen!”
“No, ten thousand squadrons! You mustn’t do that, lieutenant. I see the place has gone to the devil, eh?”
“I must needs do homage to a fellow who assumed the most patronizing airs; agree with everything he said, even when it lacked common sense; and even say that he played well when, by his own stupid play, he caused me to lose thirty francs that I had bet!”
“Thirty francs at one crack! That was rather a big stake, lieutenant.”
“What would you have? I was determined to test my luck.”
“But black bread and water make a wretched meal.”
“I still have some hope. Eugène is going to speak to his uncle, and perhaps I shall have better luck in that direction.”
Several weeks passed, and Auguste finally met his friend, who said to him:
“I have spoken to my uncle; you can go to see him—I believe that he has a vacant place.”
The next morning Auguste called upon the gentleman referred to. He entered the office and in due time reached the sanctum of Eugene’s uncle, who was seated at his desk writing, and, without looking up, motioned to Auguste to wait.
Auguste, receiving no invitation to be seated, began by taking a chair and stretched out his legs, already looking with disfavor upon the gentleman who was not courteous enough to offer him a seat.
Five minutes passed and still the banker wrote on. Auguste, losing patience, said at last:
“Monsieur, I came here to apply for employment; Eugène must have told you——”
“One moment—I will be at your service directly, monsieur; I am very busy.”
Five minutes more passed, and Auguste said to himself:
“The devil! I chose my time very badly. Is the man going to write like this for an hour? His business must be very important!”
But, after five minutes more, another person entered the office and went up to the gentleman who was writing.
“Good-morning, my dear fellow,” he said. “Ah! you are engaged? Very well! I’ll come again.”
The gentleman at once laid aside his pen, rose, and detained the new arrival, saying:
“Why, is it you, my friend? Don’t go, deuce take it! No one ever sees you now! I dined yesterday with someone who talked to me about you. Well, have you sold that cargo of Martinique coffee, the price of which I predicted would fall?”
The newcomer was about to reply when Auguste, rising, walked between him and the banker, and having put on his hat, said to the latter:
“Monsieur, you have kept me waiting for half an hour, unable to give me a minute, and you have the impertinence to enter into conversation in my presence with this gentleman who has just arrived! I have only this much to say to you—that you’re a knave and a rascal! If you can find time to answer that, here’s my address, and I shall expect to hear from you.”
With that Auguste stalked from the room, leaving thebusygentleman utterly bewildered by the compliment paid to him, and unable to find a word to say in reply.
Again Bertrand was awaiting his master’s return; but when Auguste appeared, the other divined the result of his quest. The young man’s eyes shone with anger.
“Black bread and water, eh, monsieur?” asked Bertrand.
“Yes, my friend, yes. Ah! these men! Upon my word, I have good grounds for becoming a misanthrope. I have never known the world so well as since I lost my money. Parvenus who think that they may presume to go any length because they are millionaires! Men of intellect who think of nobody but themselves, and who, provided that they are coddled and amused, show the most absolute indifference to everything else! People with the most polished manners who cheat you out of your money! Conceited asses who want to be flattered, fools who flatter them, parasites who suck your blood, swindlers who ruin you, and men who turn their backs on you when you’re unlucky! Those are what I see now. And they are just what have always been seen, so ’tis said. Men are the same everywhere; they were no different before the Flood, and the study of history is simply the study of the passions which have ruled the actions of the human race for ages.”
“In all this, my lieutenant, you forget the women, who——”
“Ah! let us say no ill of them, my friend, they are a hundred times better than we. Do we not find enjoyment even with those whom we deceive? That is one pleasant memory, at all events, of which misfortune cannot deprive us.”
“That reminds me, monsieur, that Mademoiselle Virginie came to see you to-day.”
“Poor Virginie! she doesn’t know as yet of the change in my fortunes. Well! what did she say, Bertrand?”
“She said, first of all, that it wouldn’t be well for an asthmatic subject to come up so high; then she asked me whether you had come up so many flights so that youcould go down in a parachute; but when I told her how you had been swindled, why, I must do her the justice to say that she seemed deeply moved; she shed some tears and asked me for a glass of kirsch to pull her together. She’s coming to breakfast with you some morning.”
“I shall be very glad to see her; she, at all events, won’t avoid me when she meets me.”
“And those good people at Montfermeil—pretty Denise—do you think, monsieur, that they wouldn’t be glad to see you again?”
“I am afraid that the cold welcome I gave Denise when she came to Paris——”
“She won’t remember, monsieur, when she finds out that you’re unfortunate. And that child you’re so fond of—that you think is such a fine little fellow—why not go to see him?”
“Why? You seem to forget, Bertrand, that I can no longer do anything for him! I promised to educate him, to take charge of his future—and all my plans are destroyed!”
“But I should say, monsieur, that you have already done a great deal for the little fellow; instead of coming to Paris, he will remain in the village, and he won’t be any worse off for that.”
Auguste could not make up his mind to appear in the guise of a ruined man to the good people who had seen him scattering gold in profusion; a false shame deterred him from going again to the village, and he who had just been declaiming against the passions of men showed that he was not himself exempt from pride and vanity.
Auguste left Bertrand and went out in search of distraction and to dispel the black mood to which his reflections gave birth. Bertrand, left alone, reflected thatall hopes of employment had vanished, and said to himself:
“What are we going to do when we haven’t anything left, which won’t be long? Shall I let him live on black bread and water? Sacrebleu! no, that shall never be! I am not capable of filling a clerk’s place—besides, he wouldn’t want me to leave him—but can’t I work without his suspecting it?”
Bertrand thought a few moments, scratched his head, then exclaimed joyfully: “Why the devil didn’t I think of it sooner?” Then he went slowly downstairs and hunted up his friend Schtrack.
“You make breeches, old fellow, don’t you?” said Bertrand to the concierge; “in fact, you’re a tailor——”
“Ja.”
“Do you always have plenty of work?”
“Ja, I haf more than I can do.”
“That’s because you don’t often work. Are you willing to give me some?”
“Preeches?”
“Whatever you choose, so long as I have work to do. I shall make a mess of it at first, but you can show me and I’ll do better soon. You see, I’m anxious to work, I’m no more of a fool than you are, and it seems to me that I can do whatever you do. So you’ll give me some work, will you?”
“Sacretié! Monsieur Pertrand, do you mean it?”
“Why, yes; I want to do something; I am tired of sitting all day with my arms folded; so I’ll fold my legs, that will be a change. Is it agreed?”
“Ja, Monsieur Pertrand.”
“That’s good; but not a word of this before my master, or I’ll begin my apprenticeship by sewing up your tongue.”
“I won’t say ein wort.”
That same evening, as soon as Dalville had gone out, Bertrand went down to the concierge’s quarters, and, seating himself in a small room behind the lodge, went to work with great zeal. At first the ex-corporal had much ado to use a needle, and he frequently thrust it into his finger; but when Schtrack said: “You’ve hurt yourself, mein friend!” Bertrand rejoined: “Don’t you suppose a bayonet hurt more than that?”
Bertrand passed a large part of the day at work and sometimes he worked very late. By dint of application, he began to make himself useful; he earned very little, but he hoped to become more skilful in time.
Auguste had no suspicion of anything; he was rarely at home and never inquired what Bertrand was doing. But, when he looked at his faithful companion, he noticed that his eyes were very red and that he had a tired look.
“You’re not sick, are you, my friend?” he asked.
“I, monsieur—I was never so well.”
“You have a tired look, and your eyes seem weak.”
“Oh! that’s because I read a great deal at night.”
“I didn’t know that you were so fond of reading.”
“That depends on the book, monsieur; I’m reading the life of the great Turenne.”
“You must know it by heart.”
“I never get tired of it, monsieur.”
Auguste asked no more questions. Some time after, one night when he could not sleep because, with all his philosophy, his reflections were beginning to be less cheerful, Auguste got out of bed and determined to try reading himself. He went to Bertrand’s room to get a light, and was amazed to find that his companion was absent. Bertrand’s bed was not disturbed, so that he had not retired; and yet it was late when Auguste came home,and Bertrand was apparently waiting for him to come in before going to bed.
That midnight absence disturbed Auguste. He had no idea that his faithful follower would go about to wine-shops with Schtrack, in their present condition, and as he wished to find out at what time Bertrand left the house, he went downstairs, having decided to rouse Schtrack if necessary; he was determined to learn what had become of Bertrand.
It was three o’clock in the morning and everybody in the house was asleep, but Auguste saw a light in the concierge’s lodge; the door was ajar and the light came from the room at the rear. Auguste went in and discovered Bertrand seated on a table beside the sleeping Schtrack, working resolutely on a piece of cloth in which his tired eyes could hardly follow the threads which were his guide.
At sight of his master, Bertrand stopped, crestfallen. Auguste was so moved that he stood for some moments unable to speak. At last he cried:
“What! you, working, Bertrand? Have you turned tailor?”
“Why not, monsieur? I handled a musket a long while, and now I am handling a needle; they say that an honest man honors whatever he touches.”
“And you pass your nights working! you are ruining your eyesight in order to work a little more!”
“This is a mere chance, monsieur; there was a piece of work to be done in a hurry to-night, and I thought—But it’s the first time, I swear!”
“Oh! don’t try to deceive me any more! It’s for me that you sit up all night and deprive yourself of rest. It’s to spin out our funds a little longer that you are ruining your health. And I—I pass my days in idleness; Isquander in an hour or two what you work like a dog as many nights to earn.”
“No, monsieur, no, I work because I like it, because it amuses me; and if I should try to be less of a burden to you, would there be any harm in that? Haven’t you been doing everything for me for a long time? and do you propose to forbid your old comrade to do something for you?”
Auguste could not reply, but he opened his arms to Bertrand and pressed him to his heart; then he forced his faithful servant to go upstairs with him and go to bed.
The next day, at daybreak, Auguste sent for an upholsterer.
“What idea have you got in your head now, monsieur?” queried Bertrand.
“I mean to sell our furniture, turn everything we own into cash, and then leave Paris and seek in some other land a means of turning to account such talents as I have. You will go with me, won’t you, Bertrand?”
“Anywhere, monsieur, anywhere you choose. But why this sudden decision? Couldn’t you do it without leaving Paris?”
“No, my friend; in this city, where I have lived the life of a man of wealth, it would be hard for me, I know, to turn my trifling talents to account. Forgive this last exhibition of weakness.”
“Before we resort to this step, is there no longer any hope of your finding employment?”
“Hope is the very thing that is using up what little means I have left. Besides, here in Paris I am not able to resist my taste for dissipation. Perhaps I shall be wiser in some other country. So we must make our preparations to start. If this experiment isn’t successful at all events it’s proper to make it.”
“But, lieutenant——”
“No objections, Bertrand. Your conduct suggested mine, and my mind is made up. We leave Paris to-morrow.”
Bertrand saw that it was indeed useless for him to try to combat his master’s plan; he realized too that it was the only course that remained for them to take, for he could not long support his master with the twenty sous that he earned by tailoring. So that he set about making preparations for departure.
Auguste, who liked to carry out his plans promptly when he had determined upon them, effected a sale of his furniture during the day, and the proceeds, added to what cash he had left, made about six thousand francs.
“I should like to know,” he said to Bertrand, “if, with this amount of money, we can’t go to the ends of the world in search of fortune?”
“It is certain, lieutenant, that there are a great many people who began with much less.”
When everything was ready, Auguste, who proposed to go first to Italy, engaged seats in the Lyon diligence. Bertrand went to say good-bye to Schtrack.
“Farewell, old fellow,” he said; “we’re going round the world; if I come back, I’ll have another drink with you.”
“Sacretié! Good-bye, Monsieur Pertrand.”
Auguste and Bertrand had been gone several hours, and Schtrack was standing in the doorway trying to catch another glimpse of them, when a young village maiden, carrying a large bag of money in one hand, rushed into the courtyard and asked for Monsieur Dalville.
“Monsieur Dalville?” repeated Schtrack, taking his pipe from his mouth; “he isn’t here any more, mamzelle.”
“Not here! What do you mean, monsieur? This is certainly where he lived. I came here once before. You remember the time, don’t you—when you wouldn’t let me go upstairs?”
“Ah, ja! You had a little poy mit you then.”
“Yes, monsieur. But where does Monsieur Dalville live now? Do you know, monsieur? It is absolutely necessary that I should see him and speak to him! Oh! if I only could have got this money sooner—what I owe him! But tell me, monsieur,—must I go somewhere else?”
“My little mamzelle, I don’t think you will find Monsieur Dalville very easy.”
“Why not, monsieur? I am ready to go anywhere—no matter where.”
“I tell you it’s too late. How do you expect to find the address of a man who’s going round the world?”
“What’s that?—Monsieur Auguste——”
“He started off this very day mit my friend Pertrand.”
“Gone!”
“Ach ja! He got ruined here, so he’s going to try to make a fortune somewhere else.”
“He has gone away! You don’t know where he is?”
“Yes, I do—don’t I tell you he’s gone round the world?”
“Oh! how unlucky! I have come too late!”
With that Denise lost consciousness and fell; but Schtrack caught her in his arms, and after laying his pipe on the post, carried her into the house. He took her into his lodge. When she swooned, the girl dropped the bag that she carried; it burst, and the five-franc pieces rolled about the courtyard. Schtrack, sorely embarrassed because he happened to be alone for the moment, ran from Denise to the money and from the money to his pipe, crying:
“Sacretié! this girl has to go and faint just when my wife ain’t in! Well, well! my pipe’s gone out, and the money’s rolling all about! Sacretié!”
Luckily for the old German and for Denise, another lady entered the house at this juncture. It was Mademoiselle Virginie, who had come to invite herself to breakfast with Auguste, and who, when she saw the five-franc pieces scattered about the courtyard, exclaimed in surprise:
“Mon Dieu! what magnificence! They throw money out o’window here! I seem to have come just in time.”
“Don’t touch! don’t touch!” cried Schtrack from his lodge; “it belongs to this girl who won’t open her eyes.”
“Well, old Dutchman, am I touching your money? What an uncivil old villain it is! What do you take me for, Monsieur Helvetian?—What girl can he be talking about?”
And as she spoke, Virginie walked toward the lodge, and she uttered a cry of surprise when she saw the young girl from Montfermeil, whom Schtrack was drenching with vinegar.
“It’s Denise! it’s my poor Denise!” she said, pushing Schtrack aside and taking charge of the young woman.
“Poor Denise! She ain’t so poor, for I tell you that bag of crowns is hers,” said Schtrack, returning to the courtyard to recover his pipe and pick up the money.
Virginie’s efforts were soon successful in restoring Denise to consciousness. When she opened her eyes they rested on Virginie, and she exclaimed, sobbing bitterly:
“Oh! he has gone away, madame!”
“Who, pray, my dear love?”
“Monsieur Auguste.”
“Auguste gone away! nonsense! he’ll come back, of course, won’t he?”
“Oh, no, madame! I shall never see him again. He’s gone a long way.”
“I say, Dutchman, is it true that Auguste has left Paris?”
“Ja! ja! he’s gone round the world with Pertrand.”
“Round the world! Great God! And I came to ask him to invite me to breakfast! Come, my little Denise, don’t cry like that!—Poor child! she makes me feel sad.—So you loved Auguste, did you, my dear child?”
“Oh, yes, madame!”
“There! I knew it! she loved him! I suspected as much.—And he swore that he loved you too, of course; for these villains of men, they swear to that as if they were just saying good-morning.”
“No, madame, Auguste didn’t love me, I’m very sure of that!”
“Then it’s very kind of you to weep for him.”
“Oh! I can’t help it.”
“I know well enough that love is stronger than we are. I know all about that! I have been through it. There are men that one can’t help persisting in loving.—And you came to Paris to see him?”
“Yes, madame, and to give him this money. When you came to see me three weeks ago, you told us that Monsieur Auguste was ruined. I didn’t know anything about it before.”
“Yes, yes, I remember; and I played ghost; and if it hadn’t been for your dog nipping the calf of my leg, I’d have had the whole village in the air.”
“Last summer Monsieur Auguste gave me a thousand crowns for little Coco; but he was rich then; to-day, as he isn’t rich any more, it seemed to me that I ought to give back that money. We had used it for building a cottage and laying out a garden; but I made my aunt understand that we mustn’t tell Monsieur Auguste that we had used the money at all. My aunt’s kindhearted too. Besides, it was no more than our duty. As I succeeded in getting the last of the money yesterday, I started to bring it to him right away. I came alone so as not to be delayed, and after all I got here too late! He has gone, and he isn’t coming back again!”
Denise began to cry again, while Schtrack returned with the money and handed it to her, saying:
“There ain’t a single one missing; count ‘em, mamzelle.”
“Alas! what shall I do with it now? This money was for him,” said Denise.
“You had better take it home again, my child; a person can never have too much of it,” Virginie replied, while Schtrack, still holding the bag, repeated:
“Count ‘em, mamzelle, if you blease.”
“Don’t you see that she don’t want to count it, you pig-headed old fool?” said Virginie. “We all know that the Dutchman is honest.”
“Never mind, count just the same, mamzelle, if you blease.”
Virginie decided to count the money, because Schtrack would not otherwise have left them in peace. Meanwhile Denise said to the concierge:
“Did Monsieur Auguste look very sad when he went away, monsieur?”
“Sad? no, mamzelle, he was fery glad to go, judging from what he said.”
“I’ll bet he’s gone to pick up a legacy,” said Virginie, “and that’s why he went off so sudden. Didn’t he tell you so, Dutchman?”
“No, he haf not said anything of a legacy, but he sold[F]all his furniture.”