VI
A PRIVATE DINING-ROOM
The next day, punctually at five o'clock, Dupont appeared. He found Georgette dressed in her best clothes, but still pensive and careworn.
"Decidedly, you regret your childhood's friend too much," said Dupont, with a smile. "You were always so light-hearted, singing all the time—I should hardly recognize you now!"
"It isn't Colinet's going away that makes me thoughtful."
"Oho! it isn't that? Then there's something else, is there?"
"Perhaps so."
"Something which you will confide to me?"
"I think not."
"In that case, let us go to dinner."
They went to the restaurant on Boulevard du Temple. As they were about to ascend the flight of stairs leading to the first floor, three gentlemen who seemed to have dined very well came down. One of them, finding himself face to face with Dupont, uttered an exclamation of surprise as he looked at him, and slapped him on the back.
"Well, upon my word!" he cried; "this is an unexpected meeting! It's Dupont, dear old Dupont! What does this mean? You are in Paris, and haven't been to see me?"
Dupont turned scarlet, he hung his head, and stammered:
"Ah! is it you, Jolibois? Bonjour! How are you? Adieu!"
And he tried to pass with Georgette, who had his arm.
But Monsieur Jolibois caught him by the sleeve, and continued:
"Well! do you hurry away like this when you meet a friend? When did you leave Brives-la-Gaillarde? Is your wife with you? Don't run away, I say; I'm very glad to see you. Poor Dupont! Do you still sleep like a marmot? For that's all you did when I was at Brives-la-Gaillarde, and your wife complained of it. Ha! ha! she complained bitterly, did your dear spouse!"
Dupont was on the rack; if he had dared, he would have struck his friend Jolibois, to make him relax his hold, at the risk of knocking him downstairs. He tried to release his arm, muttering:
"You have been dining, Jolibois, and dining very well, I should judge. But madame and I have not dined, and we would like to join our friends, who are waiting for us upstairs. I'll call on you; but let me go now, Jolibois; I promise you that I'll call to see you.—Come, my dear madame, they are waiting for us."
With another jerk, Dupont succeeded in shaking off his persecutor. He hurried Georgette upstairs, leaving his friend Jolibois, who looked after them, crying:
"Ah! you rascal! you think you can fool me! But I can guess—I see what's up! You're a rascal, Dupont! But don't be afraid: I won't tell your wife."
Georgette did not say a word; she took pity on her escort's pitiable state. They reached the landing on the first floor. Dupont recognized his waiter and said to him:
"Waiter, we would like a table in one of the public rooms."
"There isn't one, monsieur; they're all taken. It's very hard to get one on Sunday, unless you come much earlier than this. But I happen to have a private room, just vacated; I will give you that."
Dupont glanced at Georgette, who replied:
"We wish to dine in a public room. Let us take a turn on the boulevard; we will come back in a little while, and probably we shall find a table then."
"As you please, my dear friend," replied Dupont, who dared not insist, because the meeting with his friend Jolibois had made him very sheepish; but as they went away he made a sign to the waiter.
They returned to the boulevard; it was a dull, damp day, and there was some mud on the pavement; but, as it was a Sunday, there was a great throng on the boulevards, for there are multitudes of people in Paris who are determined to walk out on Sunday, whatever the weather, and who, when the rain begins to fall in torrents, vanish only to reappear a moment later, armed with umbrellas, and stroll along, looking in the shop windows, as if the sun were shining.
Dupont offered Georgette his arm; he did not know how to begin the conversation, being sadly embarrassed. The girl enjoyed his confusion for some minutes, then began:
"Well, Monsieur l'Américain from Brives-la-Gaillarde, has your meeting with your friend Jolibois made you dumb? Really, that would be a pity, you say such pretty things sometimes!"
Dupont tried to recover his self-possession, and replied:
"My charming neighbor, I confess that that meeting was not very agreeable to me!"
"Oh! I believe you there!"
"In the first place, Jolibois was drunk; it was easy enough to see that he'd been drinking too much, for he didn't know what he was saying. He recognized me—and then he took me for somebody else."
Georgette stopped, looked her escort squarely in the face, and said in a very sharp tone:
"Monsieur Dupont, do you take me for a fool?"
"I, mademoiselle? God forbid! On the contrary, I have every reason to know that you have a very keen intellect, that you reason perfectly, and that you are also exceedingly shrewd and satirical."
"In that case, monsieur, don't try to go on with the lies you have told me, in which, by the way, I never placed much faith: for you are much more like a Limousin than an American. You were never an American. You came to Paris from Brives-la-Gaillarde, as your friend Jolibois has just told you. But what I am least able to forgive is your passing yourself off as a widower while your wife is still living! Fie, monsieur! to deny your wife is a shameful thing!"
Dupont saw that he must abandon falsehood.
"Mademoiselle," he faltered. "Well, yes—it is true—I admit it. But I was so anxious to make your acquaintance! And if I had told you I was married, you wouldn't have consented to receive me."
"Why not? On the contrary, it would have given me more confidence in you. I would have said: 'Here's a man who doesn't try to deceive me.'—But to pretend to be a widower—to attempt to play the bachelor here, while your poor wife is lamenting your absence, no doubt!"
"Oh, no! you may be quite easy in your mind as to that! My wife doesn't lament my absence in the least. She was one of the first to urge me to come to Paris, and to come without her."
"And to pretend to be a bachelor?"
"I don't say that she went so far as that; but when a woman allows her husband to travel without her, that means that she is willing he should play the bachelor; for, after all, my dear little neighbor, men aren't nuns, and you understand——"
"Enough, monsieur, enough! not another word on that subject!"
"Very good; I ask nothing better.—But I think I felt a drop of rain."
"Yes, it's raining. Let's go back to the restaurant; there will probably be room now."
They returned to Bonvalet's, where the waiter made the same reply:
"Everything's taken in the public room; but I happen to have a private room; I advise you to take it quick, or somebody else will get possession."
Dupont looked at Georgette, who replied:
"All right! let's take the private room, as we can't do anything else."
Our gallant was overjoyed. The waiter escorted them into a warm, comfortable, well-closed room, where a table was already laid for two.
"Really, one would think that they expected us!" said Georgette, removing her bonnet and shawl.
"Guests are always expected at a restaurant."
"Of course; but these two covers all laid!"
"It is probably a room in which they never put more than two."
"No matter. Give your order quickly, monsieur, for I am awfully hungry."
"I would like to know what you prefer."
"Oh! I like everything."
"And there is nothing that I don't like; so the matter can be easily arranged."
Dupont ordered a choice, toothsome dinner, with a great variety of wines. He attempted to sit on a sofa beside Georgette; but she compelled him to sit opposite her, on the other side of the table.
"You would be in my way at dinner," she said; "and I don't like to be hampered when I am eating."
"I must not annoy her," said Dupont to himself. "I must go softly, for I have much to be forgiven for. Let's wait till the generous wines arrive."
Georgette did honor to the dinner; but she drank very little, although her companion did his utmost to induce her to, crying, as he filled her glass with beaune première:
"Above all things, don't put water in this wine; it would be downright murder! It's the most delicious beaune there is."
"That makes absolutely no difference to me," replied the girl. "I never drink pure wine. I prefer it with water."
"That's all right with common wines. But this, which costs four francs a bottle—it's sacrilege to put water in it!"
"In that case, my dear Monsieur Dupont, you shouldn't have ordered anything but common wines; then you wouldn't have exposed me to the risk of committing crimes."
Dupont was vexed; but, to compensate himself for his disappointment, he was very careful to drink his own beaune pure, and he resorted to it frequently, to keep up his courage and his gayety. He was beginning to risk an affectionate word or two, when Georgette abruptly interposed, saying:
"Is madame your wife pretty?"
Dupont frowned, as he replied:
"Quite—but not so well built as you—far from it! Ah! if she had your enchanting figure!"
"Are her eyes black or blue?"
"They are—they are green, like a cat's."
"Oh! what a misfortune! You say that your wife has eyes like a cat's?"
"What do I care?—And your mouth is so lovely! Your smile charms me beyond words!"
"And her teeth—are they fine?"
"Whose teeth?"
"Your wife's."
"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle, don't you propose to talk about anything but my wife? I will confess that I didn't ask you to dine with me in order to hear you talk about her."
"That may be; but the subject is very interesting to me."
"Must I tell you again, my lovely Georgette, that in Paris I have no wife, that I am a bachelor again?"
"True; I know perfectly well that you would like to make people think so. But, after all, my dear Monsieur Dupont, you may be quite sure of one thing, and that is that it's a matter of indifference to me whether you are married or single."
Dupont wondered how he ought to take that. He concluded to look upon it as an omen favorable to his love, and filled his neighbor's glass with grenache, saying:
"This is a lady's wine, very sweet, which won't stand water. Taste it, I beg you."
Georgette took one swallow of grenache, then put her glass on the table.
"I don't like sweetened wines," she said.
"Sapristi! what in heaven's name does she like?" thought Dupont; and to console himself, he emptied his own glass at a draught.
But by dint of trying to maintain his aplomb, he became as red as his friend Jolibois; and when the champagne was brought, he left his chair and proposed to Georgette to dance the polka with him. She laughed in his face and sent him back to his seat. He filled a glass with champagne and offered it to the girl.
"Don't you like champagne either?" he asked.
"Oh, no! it has an effervescence, a sparkle, that arouses—— Does your wife like it?"
Dupont brought his fist down on the table, drank a glass of champagne, and cried:
"Upon my word, you're laughing at me! But you shall pay me for it! That calls for revenge, and I propose to avenge myself by kissing you."
As he spoke, he rose and rushed toward Georgette, and tried to put his arms about her. But she checked him with a firm hand.
"None of this nonsense, Monsieur Dupont," she said, "or I shall be seriously angry."
"What, dear angel! do you really mean to refuse me this?"
"I shall refuse you everything; you may be sure of that."
"Oho! why, then you have been laughing at me, making a fool of me!"
"In what way have I made a fool of you, monsieur?"
"In what way? Why, in every way! When a woman accepts a man's attentions, when she consents to receive presents from him,—a shawl, a bonnet, and heaven knows what!—she doesn't send him about his business afterward, do you understand, mademoiselle?"
"I understand, monsieur, that you are as foolish as you are impertinent. Did I ever give you the slightest hope that I would be your mistress? You taunt me for accepting a few paltry presents. I have made you some much more valuable ones, by consenting to receive your visits, to go to walk and to the theatre with you, to put my arm in yours. Do you count all that as nothing, monsieur?"
"I don't say that. But you consented to dine with me in a private room; and when a woman goes to a private dining-room with a gentleman—it isn't for the purpose of being cruel. Everybody knows that."
"Oh! I could well afford to dine tête-à-tête with you, monsieur, for you have never been at all dangerous to me."
"Then why have you always refused until to-day?"
"Because I didn't choose to give you hopes that could not be realized."
"And why did you accept to-day?"
"Because it bored me to walk about in the rain with you. But, never fear, monsieur, I shall not be caught again."
Dupont was terribly put out; but self-esteem, the wine he had drunk, and the mocking glances of the girl, who seemed to defy him—all these excited him beyond measure, and he determined to face even Mademoiselle Georgette's wrath. He said to himself that he was nothing but a simpleton, that the girl was laughing at him, that he would never have so favorable an opportunity again, and that he would be a fool not to take advantage of it. All these reflections passed through his mind like a flash of lightning; having failed in his attempt to kiss his intended victim, he ventured to attack her in a different fashion. Instantly he received a smart blow as the reward of his audacity.
"Leave me, monsieur," said Georgette, rising from her seat; "you are an insolent fellow, and I will not remain with you another minute."
"Oh! I am very sorry, my lovely neighbor, but I will not leave you," replied Dupont, who had lost his head completely; and he succeeded in seizing the short striped petticoat that Georgette had on. "No, no; I have got hold of that charming little skirt which is so becoming to you, and which I have gazed at and admired so often! I've got it, and I won't let it go."
"All right! then keep it, monsieur, for it's all you will ever have of mine!"
As she spoke, Georgette found a way to let the skirt fall at her feet. She jumped over it, ran to where her shawl and bonnet were hanging, and left the room before Dupont, who still held the striped skirt in his hand, had recovered from his astonishment.
VII
THE SECOND PETTICOAT
On the day following that dinner, Mademoiselle Georgette left her modest little chamber on Rue de Seine very early in the morning; for she had taken care to give notice in the middle of the quarter.
This time she hired lodgings in the Marais, on Boulevard Beaumarchais, where rows of handsome houses, solidly constructed, now replace the paths, shaded by secular trees, which used often to serve as places of assignation for lovelorn couples.
The young embroiderer exchanged her attic room for a small apartment, still very modest, but indicating a less precarious financial condition. The furniture, too, was more pretentious; it was not that of a petite-maîtresse, but it was no longer that of a grisette.
Mademoiselle Georgette changed her business also; she abandoned embroidery to become a shirtmaker; and as she sewed as well as she embroidered, she did not lack work.
Lastly, the short fustian skirt gave place to a petticoat of black silk, which fell gracefully over her alluring figure and reached only halfway to her ankle, so that it disclosed the lower part of a very shapely leg and the beginning of a plump calf.
In her own room, the pretty shirtmaker affected the costume that she wore in the attic on Rue de Seine, a tight-fitting white jacket, and the short skirt that was so becoming to her. Add to these, spotlessly clean white stockings, and a tiny foot neatly shod, and she was quite certain to turn the heads of all who saw her in that charming négligé.
Georgette lived now at the rear of a courtyard; but that courtyard was spacious, airy, and well kept; it was square in shape, and the tenants of the building in front looked on the boulevard and on the courtyard, while those in the building at the rear had the latter view only; and when they sat at their windows, they could see nothing but one another.
Georgette occupied two small rooms on the entresol. But above her was an elderly female annuitant, with her servant; their combined ages exceeded a century. On the next floor above, a family of honest bourgeois, who were always in bed at half-past ten. On the upper floor, a lady who gave lessons on the piano. In the building at her right lived an unmarried government clerk, who had a maid of all work. Above him, a lady of uncertain age, who had once been very pretty, and was still a great coquette; who covered her face with rice powder, cold cream, and red, blue, and black paint; who regretted the mouches with which ladies used to spot their faces, but who had made, with the aid of a red-hot pin, two beauty spots—one on the left cheek, the other on a spot which is not seen. But, you will say, if it is not seen, why make the beauty spot there? Ah! you are too inquisitive! Pray, do not those persons who are gifted with second-sight see everything, even the most carefully hidden things? The second beauty spot was for them; magnetism is an invaluable science.
Above this lady, whose name was Madame Picotée, were two young men who devoted themselves to literature, which did not prevent them from ogling their neighbors, when they were attractive.
In the building at the left, on the first floor, was a dressmaker's establishment; on the second, a painter of miniatures; on the third, a photographer. In all the buildings, the rooms under the eaves were reserved for servants.
The building that looked on the boulevard contained the handsomest apartments, and, consequently, the most important tenants of the house.
On the first floor was a very rich gentleman with two servants: a maid and a valet. On the second, a young couple; the husband was engaged in business, the wife in coquetry; she was pretty and a flirt, he was ugly and a rake; they had a soubrette with a very wide-awake air, and a cook who drank too much.
On the third floor was a young man who had just received his degree as a physician and who lacked nothing but patients; he looked for them and solicited them everywhere; he would have made some, if it had been possible, but only for the pleasure of taking care of them and the glory of curing them.
After Mademoiselle Georgette took up her abode in the entresol at the rear of the courtyard, all eyes were fastened upon her, and the feminine glances were foremost in seeking to scrutinize and pass judgment on the new-comer; for women are more curious than men—that is a recognized fact.
It was easy to obtain a sight of the latest arrival; it was April; the weather was very fine, the sun deigned to show his face frequently; and Mademoiselle Georgette, who was very glad to admit him to her little entresol, left her windows open almost all day, and, as her custom was, sat at her window working. You know what her costume was: the white jacket fitting close to her figure, and the skirt clinging about her hips.
So that they could look at her and examine her at their ease; and as she was very attractive, very alluring in her simple costume, the women did not fail to discover that it was very unseemly, and that it was most unbecoming to her. They decided that the little shirtmaker did not know how to dress, and that she had no other beauty than her youth.
The lady who painted her cheeks even went so far as to say that the girl's skirt was indecent, because it outlined her figure too plainly. To be sure, the lady in question no longer had any figure that could possibly be outlined by her garments; but, on the other hand, she was very fond of going to the Circus, where men perform daring feats on horseback, and she had never found any fault with the exceedingly tight nether garments worn by most of the riders.
The men who lived in the house disagreed entirely with the opinion of the ladies. To a man, they voted the girl most attractive and exceedingly well built; and they rivalled one another in passing encomiums upon the grace with which she wore her modest costume. The short black petticoat was declared to be enchanting; and from the first to the topmost floor, the male tenants said to one another:
"Have you seen the girl on the entresol, with her little short skirt?"
"Yes, she's very piquant, is that young woman; she has such a well-set-up figure, and such well-rounded hips! She reminds me of the famous Spanish dancer, Camera Petra."
"Yes, yes, there's a resemblance in her skirt. I saw her in the yard, drawing water at the pump."
"Still in her simple négligé?"
"Yes. Ah! messieurs, if you could have seen her pump! She was so graceful, and her skirt followed her motions so perfectly! It was enough to drive a man mad!"
"She has a very pretty leg too, and a tiny foot."
"She's a mighty pretty girl! I must try to make a conquest of her."
"And I."
"And I."
"And I," said the photographer to himself; "I'll do it quicker than any of 'em, as I'll go to her and suggest taking her picture on a card; for all these young girls are delighted to have their picture."
VIII
A GENTLEMAN WHO DID NOT RUIN HIMSELF FOR WOMEN
There was one man in the house who said nothing; to be sure, he was too lofty a personage to gossip with his neighbors! It was the man who occupied the first-floor suite in the building on the boulevard. His name was Monsieur de Mardeille; was he of noble birth, or was he not? that is of little consequence to us; but this much is certain: he had about twenty-five thousand francs a year and he never spent the whole of his income.
Monsieur de Mardeille was at this time about fifty years of age, but he looked hardly forty-four. He had been a very comely person, and was still far from ill-looking. He was of commanding stature, well built, and had had the good fortune not to grow stout as he grew older; thus he was still capable of making conquests, his physical advantages being reinforced by those due to the possession of wealth. Always dressed in the height of fashion, but wise enough to avoid those extreme styles which, while they are endurable in a young man, are ridiculous in middle age, Monsieur de Mardeille had a distinguished bearing and the manners of the best society; and lastly, while he was no eagle, he had that social cleverness which often consists only in a good memory, and is infinitely more common than natural cleverness. With all the rest, he was exceedingly presumptuous, and believed himself to be very shrewd.
It is almost superfluous to say that Monsieur de Mardeille took the greatest care of his health, for he was most solicitous to retain his good looks, and, consequently, his youth; which last is a decidedly difficult thing to do, as we grow older every day. But still, so long as a man has a youthful look he tries to persuade himself that he is really young; to be sure, there is always something in our inmost being that reminds us how old we are; but so long as that something does not let itself be seen, we are entitled to forget it.
Monsieur de Mardeille, then, took the greatest care of his person; he took medicinal baths twice a week; he took all the laxatives that keep the complexion fresh; he indulged in no excess, either at the table or in love. In fact, as he was a man who thought of nothing but himself, he had never allowed himself to undergo the slightest annoyance because of a woman, for egotists never love. Moreover, this gentleman prided himself upon never having spent money on a mistress. We do not call it spending money when we take a lady to dine at a restaurant, or to the play, or to the Bois in a calèche; for, in such cases, as we have our share of the pleasure, and as we gratify our vanity by parading our conquest, the money is spent for our own behoof. So that Monsieur de Mardeille, having thus far succeeded in having bonnes fortunes that cost him nothing, laughed at his friends, most of whom ruined themselves, or at least ran into debt, to satisfy the whims of the fair ones for whom they sighed.
"What the devil!" he would say, looking at himself in a mirror; "do as I do, messieurs! No woman ever resisted me, and yet I never gave them diamonds or cashmere shawls—still less, money, egad! And I have always taken good care not to pay their milliner's bills; whenever it has happened that a lady who had been kind to me has taken it into her head to send one of her purveyors to me with a little note begging me to help her out of a scrape by paying his bill, I have always begun by turning the man out of doors; and then I have ceased visiting my fair one, to whom I have written: 'I found it impossible to accommodate you, and I dare not see you again.'—Then my mistress was certain to come running after me, overwhelming me with tokens of affection, and crying: 'Can it be that you thought that I loved you from selfish motives? Why, it is you, you alone, whom I love! Oh! come back, come back!'—I have generally let them pull my ear for a while, and then gone back, amid transports of love on their part. For you may be perfectly sure, messieurs, that a woman will never love a man more because he is very gallant and very generous with her. She will take more pains about deceiving him, that's all; for she will hate to lose his gifts and his bounty; but what pleasure is there in possessing a woman who clings to you only from motives of self-interest?"
"But," some of his friends would reply, "have you never felt the pleasure of giving? Are you insensible to the delight one feels in gratifying a woman's desires, in humoring her fancies, her caprices, and in the sweet smile with which she thanks you when you take her a present, whether it be some pretty trifle, or a magnificent jewel?"
"Pardieu! I can readily believe that she smiles at you then; you wouldn't have her make a face at you, would you? But that gracious smile, which transports and intoxicates you, is not bestowed on you, but on the jewel or the shawl that you bring her. And perhaps you think that she loves you the more for it? Why, not at all; she will deceive you the next minute, making fun of you with the friend of her heart, to whom she will laughingly show the present you have just given her. No, messieurs, I do not know, nor have I any desire to know, what you choose to call the pleasure of giving. For that pleasure would deprive me of all confidence in my mistress; and if I am deceived, I can, at all events, say that it has cost me nothing.—And then," De Mardeille would add, "I must say that I have always chosen my conquests in good society, and that, consequently, my mistresses did not need to have me treat them generously."
"That proves nothing. Whatever a woman's rank, she is always flattered to receive a handsome present."
"Perhaps so; but, on the other hand, I am much more flattered when she loves me without any presents."
Now you know the gentleman who lived directly opposite Georgette, and whose windows, being on the first floor, enabled him to look directly into the apartments in the entresol opposite; which entresol was occupied by the pretty shirtmaker, who, as we have already had the privilege of informing you, often left her windows open to enjoy the balmy spring air, and perhaps also to allow her neighbors to see her. When a woman is pretty, she does not hide herself, unless she is under the sway of a jealous tyrant. And even then she finds a way to let some portion of her person be seen, which may kindle a desire to see the rest.
Monsieur de Mardeille condescended occasionally to sit at a window in his dining-room, which looked on the courtyard; and there, in a stylish négligé, enveloped in a handsome dressing-gown, of velvet or dimity according to the season, his head covered with a dainty cap, the tassel of which fell gracefully over his right ear, and from beneath which escaped some stray brown locks, which were sternly forbidden to turn gray, my gentleman would bestow a glance or two on those of his neighbors who were worth the trouble of looking at. But thus far he had discovered nobody in the house who deserved to be scrutinized for more than an instant.
When Georgette moved in, Monsieur de Mardeille's valet lost no time in informing his master that he had a new neighbor opposite, and added:
"I thought she seemed to be very good-looking."
"Ah! she seemed to you to be good-looking?" replied the old dandy, with a smile. "What sort of woman is this new tenant?"
"She's an unmarried woman, so it seems, monsieur, and she makes men's shirts."
"A shirtmaker! What! do you presume to praise a shirtmaker to me, Frontin?"
Monsieur de Mardeille had insisted that his valet should consent to be called Frontin, although his real name was Eustache; for the name Frontin, which used to be employed in all comic operas, reminded our elegant seducer of a multitude of interesting and diverting love intrigues, wherein Frontin's master was always triumphant; and it was probably with a view to reproducing in actual life those scenes of the stage that Monsieur de Mardeille had dubbed his servant Frontin. If he had dared, he would have called him Figaro; but he himself was beginning to be a little mature to play Almaviva.
Frontin, a great clown who deemed himself very shrewd, smiled as he answered:
"Faith! monsieur, I thought that a pretty girl was a pretty girl, even if she was a shirtmaker!"
"There may be some little truth in what you say, Frontin; but so far as I am concerned, you must understand that I look at women with other eyes than yours; that is to say, to appear pretty to me, a young woman, even a grisette,—for I do not absolutely debar grisettes,—must have something more than the commonplace beauties which charm you other men on the instant. She must have a—I don't know what—a certain peculiar fascination which we connoisseurs readily recognize, and to which the common herd of martyrs pay no heed. Tell me, Frontin, what you noticed especially alluring in this girl? I shall see at once whether you're an expert."
"What I noticed, monsieur?"
"Yes. And, first of all, where did you see her?"
"I saw her pass this morning, monsieur, crossing the courtyard; I was in the concierge's lodge, and he said to me: 'See, there's the new tenant of the little entresol! That's Mamzelle Georgette; she's a shirtmaker, and she sews like a fairy, so they say.'—Naturally, I looked at her. I should say that she's about twenty, very well built, with very pleasant, attractive eyes; eyes of the sort that—that——"
"Enough, Frontin, I understand. What else?"
"Dame! monsieur, her nose is a little turned up, and she has a very large mouth; I saw her teeth when she spoke to the concierge; there isn't one missing, monsieur."
"Pardieu! if her teeth were decaying at twenty, that would be unfortunate!"
"But I mean that her teeth are very white and even; and her cheeks are rosy and fresh."
"I see! a simple, country beauty! she's probably just from the country."
"Oh, no! she doesn't look in the least like a peasant; she carries herself too easily for that."
"Well, I will see, I will examine her, I will run my eye over her. But I will wager—a toothpick—that your pretty neighbor is a mere ordinary beauty. Does she ever sit at her window?"
"Oh! better than that, monsieur: she leaves all her windows wide open, and from ours we can look right into her room; we can even see her little bed in the rear!"
"Ah! we can even see her bed? And she leaves her windows open?"
"I presume that she shuts them when she goes to bed. And she has curtains."
"Ah! Frontin, you knave, you have noticed all that! she has curtains! Parbleu! it would be a pretty state of things if she hadn't! Morals, Frontin, morals! However, I will take a look at this young woman whom you think pretty, and tell you if you know what you're talking about."
"Oh! I am sure that monsieur will agree with me."
A few moments later, Frontin ran to his master and said:
"Monsieur, our young neighbor's windows opposite are wide open, and she's sewing at one of them; you can see her at your ease."
Monsieur de Mardeille arose, saying:
"This devil of a Frontin! he insists that I must see his little shirtmaker. But beware! if you have disturbed me just to show me some commonplace face, I shall withdraw my confidence in your taste."
Although he pretended that he went to look at his new neighbor solely to oblige his servant, he was not at all sorry to assure himself whether she was in fact as attractive as Frontin said; for Monsieur de Mardeille had always been very fond of the fair sex; to seek to attract women had been almost the sole occupation of his life; and for the last few years that occupation had been much more laborious, and had demanded much more time and trouble. It is useless to appear only forty-four years old when one is fifty; there are women who think forty-four too old—usually those who are about that age themselves. A middle-aged man finds it easier to make the conquest of a mere girl than of a woman who has known life. Why is it? Probably because the former lacks the experience of the other.
Monsieur de Mardeille took up his position at one of his dining-room windows; he assumed a graceful attitude, leaning on the window sill; he pushed his cap a little farther over his right ear, then turned his eyes to this side and that, not choosing to let anyone suppose that he had come there to look at the new tenant of the entresol.
Soon, however, he carelessly cast a glance in that direction. Georgette was sitting at the window, sewing, and from time to time she too glanced into the courtyard; there is no law against a young woman's desiring to become acquainted with the faces of her neighbors.
Monsieur de Mardeille therefore was able to scrutinize the young shirtmaker's features at his leisure. She, when she raised her eyes from her work, saw plainly enough that her opposite neighbor was examining her; but that fact seemed not to embarrass her in the least, for she raised her head as often as before to look out of her window.
"Not bad! not bad!" muttered Monsieur de Mardeille; "a little nose à la Roxelane, fresh cheeks, eyes that look bright enough and saucy enough! But nothing extraordinary; I have seen all that a hundred times. She's rather a pretty girl, but nothing more. She doesn't deserve all your high-flown praise, my poor Frontin."
But thus far he had only seen Georgette seated, so that he had no opportunity to admire the shapeliness of her figure or the grace of her carriage. Luckily, chance willed—— But was it really chance? We will not take our oath to it; women are so quick at divining what is calculated to seduce us! But, no matter! let us charge it to the account of chance that it occurred to the girl to leave her seat to water a small pot of violets that stood on the other window sill.
Thereupon her opposite neighbor had an opportunity to watch her walk about her room; for one does not find on the instant all that one requires to water flowers, especially when one has no watering pot. So he saw Mademoiselle Georgette in her jacket and short petticoat; he could even see her foot and the lower part of her leg; for the girl—still by chance—went several times to the rear of the room, walking back and forth, after she had watered her flowers; and Monsieur de Mardeille, who was about to turn away from the window, remained there, and did not stir.
"Ah! the devil!" he was muttering now; "ah! that's very pretty, that is! Fichtre! what a figure! what hips! what a foot! what a leg! This is infinitely superior to all the rest. What a brisk walk! She reminds me of Béranger's ballad."
And he began to hum:
| "'Ma Frétillon! ma Frétillon! |
| Cette fille |
| Qui frétille, |
| N'a pourtant qu'un cotillon!'" |
Amazed to hear his master sing, Frontin said, with a downcast expression:
"So, monsieur doesn't think that the little one opposite deserves all I said in her praise?"
"Hush! hush! hold your tongue, Frontin!" replied Monsieur de Mardeille, without leaving the window or taking his eyes off his neighbor; "I said that, but I hadn't then seen her graceful, willowy form, or the little black skirt that outlines her voluptuous hips so perfectly. It is adorable! Indeed, it is well deserving of one's attention! And her foot! she has a charming foot! and the leg promises——"
"Ah! I am very glad that monsieur sees that I was right, and——"
"Hush, Frontin, hush! She's looking in this direction."
Georgette had, in fact, raised her head at that moment, and her eyes had met her neighbor's of the first floor. Monsieur de Mardeille eagerly seized the opportunity to bestow a gracious salutation upon the new tenant, who replied with a courtesy and a very amiable smile.
Thereupon Monsieur de Mardeille left his window, saying:
"We must not be too lavish of our attentions at once! But from the way the little one smiled at me, I see that this conquest will not cost me much trouble."
IX
THE LITTLE BLACK SKIRT DOES ITS WORK
While Monsieur de Mardeille deemed himself certain of triumphing over the young shirtmaker, almost all the other tenants of the house were trying to make a favorable impression on her. Georgette's little skirt had turned all their heads. The young men of letters were pleased to write verses in her honor, to commemorate her seductive figure in a ballad; they proposed to immortalize Georgette as Béranger immortalized Lisette, as all lovelorn poets have tried to immortalize their mistresses and their love affairs. Each of them believed himself to be a Virgil, a Catullus, a Tibullus, a Petrarch. There is no harm in that: we ought always to believe ourselves to be something; it affords one so much pleasure and costs so little!
The miniature painter determined to propose to paint the girl's portrait. The photographer hoped that she would allow him to photograph her in all sizes and in different attitudes.
The young doctor was bent upon attending her, and prayed heaven to inflict some trifling indisposition upon his pretty neighbor which would compel her to have recourse to his skill. The married man, who was very ugly and had a pretty wife, naturally considered the shirtmaker much better-looking than his wife. As he lived above Monsieur de Mardeille, he too had an excellent view of Georgette's apartment. So he frequently stationed himself at one of the windows in his dining-room; and from thence, not content with staring at his neighbor, he had no scruple about making signs and throwing kisses to her—in a word, indulging in a pantomime most discreditable to a married man. The truth was that he knew that his wife was not jealous, and that she paid little heed to his acts and gestures.
In fact, even the old bachelor, who had a maid of all work, ventured to make eyes at the pretty shirtmaker, despite his fifty-five years; and as his windows were not opposite hers, in order to see her he was obliged to lean very far out of his window.
Thereupon the maid of all work never failed to cry out:
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, it's perfectly ridiculous to lean out like that! What is it you're trying to see, anyway? Is monsieur trying to throw himself out of the window on account of the little shirtmaker on the entresol? On my word, she isn't worth the trouble! She's no great wonder; and then, monsieur won't have anything to show for the crick in his neck, for the girl never looks in this direction."
And the bachelor, irritated, but desirous none the less to deal gently with his maid, would reply:
"You don't know what you are talking about, Arthémise! I don't look in one direction more than another. I stand at the window because it does me good to breathe the fresh air. I don't pay any attention to my neighbors; I didn't even know that there was a shirtmaker on the entresol."
"Oh, yes! tell that to the marines! you can't fool me! Why, all the men in the house are getting cracked over that girl! It's easy enough to see that, for they pass about all their time at their windows, now."
In truth, as soon as Georgette's window was open and she sat down by it to work, you would see a head appear on the fourth floor, then another on the second; and sometimes they all appeared at the same moment. It seemed to amuse Georgette, who would respond affably with a little nod to the salutations addressed to her from every floor.
The female contingent was horrified by the conduct of the gentlemen; for no one of them had ever shown the slightest desire to gaze at one of the beauties of the establishment; to be sure, there were none, save the ugly man's wife, and she never appeared at any of the windows looking on the courtyard. Her bedroom faced the boulevard, and she would have considered that she compromised her reputation by showing herself at one of the rear windows.
By way of compensation, her husband was one of the most enterprising, one of those who tried most frequently to see Georgette, and who indulged in telegraphic signals to which the young shirtmaker paid no attention whatever. But that did not discourage Monsieur Bistelle,—that was the gentleman's name,—who continued to throw kisses to the girl, which she pretended not to see; it scandalized all the neighbors, however.
The young dressmakers amused themselves at Monsieur Bistelle's expense, and pointed him out to one another as soon as he appeared at his window. The lady of the beauty spot, Madame Picotée, always stationed herself at her window as soon as her neighbor came to his, and burst into roars of laughter, a little forced. At every kiss that Monsieur Bistelle threw to Georgette, she cried:
"Oh! mon Dieu! what fools some men are! but I never saw one quite so bad as this fellow! And a married man, too! why, it's shocking! The Bastille ought to be rebuilt on purpose for such people."
Monsieur Bistelle heard it all; but it made no impression on him, and he often said to himself, in an undertone:
"Bah! if I had chosen to send her a kiss, she wouldn't have thought it so shocking!"
Monsieur de Mardeille was very careful not to act so foolishly as his neighbor on the second floor. He also stood at his window to look at Georgette; but, far from making signs and throwing kisses to her, he contented himself with a low bow, to which the girl never failed to respond with a pleasant smile. But as Bistelle was often looking out just as Georgette nodded and smiled, he took for himself the salutation addressed to the floor below; so that his hopes gained strength; he was enchanted; he would rub his hands in glee and sometimes go down to walk in the courtyard, where he would stop under the shirtmaker's windows, humming:
"'’Tis here that Rose doth dwell!'"
or:
| "'When one knows how to love and please, |
| What other blessing doth he lack?'" |
And the young dressmakers never failed to clap their hands and demand an encore. One day, Madame Picotée had the bright idea of tossing him two sous, which he laughingly picked up and put in his pocket, saying: "This will buy me some rouge and rice powder."—Which remark maddened the lady of the beauty spot, who ran for her slop jar and would have emptied it on her neighbor, but for the presence of the concierge, who was sweeping the courtyard.
Meanwhile Frontin, who soon discovered that his master was enamored of the damsel of the entresol, told him all that happened in the house, and all the foolish freaks to which Monsieur Bistelle resorted in his endeavors to commend himself to Mademoiselle Georgette.
"What do you say? that ugly creature hopes to make a conquest of that pretty grisette?" cried Monsieur de Mardeille; "didn't he ever look at himself in the glass?"
"I don't know whether he knows how ugly he is," replied Frontin; "but I assure you, monsieur, that he flatters himself that he has made an impression on Mademoiselle Georgette; he declares that she smiles sweetly at him when he's at his window."
"Smiles! Why, it's at me that the girl smiles, not at him! It's impossible that it should be at him! The conceited ass! the monkey! for the fellow looks very much like a monkey, doesn't he, Frontin?"
"Yes, monsieur; and he makes gestures like one, too."
"What! do you mean to say that he presumes to do what monkeys do?"
"Faith! monsieur, he goes through some very curious performances; they're very much like it! But that isn't all."
"What else is there, Frontin?"
"I know that Monsieur Bistelle sent a very fine bouquet to Mademoiselle Georgette this morning."
"A bouquet! The popinjay! He had the assurance! And did the little one accept his bouquet?"
"Yes, monsieur; indeed, it's on her window sill now."
"Can it be possible? I must look."
Monsieur de Mardeille lost no time in going where he could see the shirtmaker's window; he not only saw a huge bouquet on the sill, but he saw Monsieur Bistelle walking in the courtyard and humming:
| "And if I am not there, |
| At least my flowers will be." |
"Well, well! I must act, that is plain!" said the elderly dandy to himself; "I must declare myself in some other way than by standing at the window. Still, I can't make a straight dash for that grisette's rooms; that might compromise me. Ah! I have an idea! It's as simple as can be. She makes shirts. There's a pretext right at my hand.—Look you, Frontin."
"Here I am, monsieur."
"I want you to go to Mademoiselle Georgette's."
"The pretty neighbor's?"
"Yes; you will present yourself in my name, and most politely. You will say to her that, as I have heard that she is a shirtmaker and as I have some very fine shirts to be made up—— That isn't true; I don't need any, but they are always useful and I can safely order a dozen.—You will say to her then, that, as I have some work for her, I shall be much obliged if she will take the trouble to come to my rooms. You understand: in this way, I don't compromise myself, and I shall be able to talk to her much more freely than in her apartment."
"Yes, monsieur, yes; I will go and do your errand."
"Be perfectly courteous and respectful; that flatters these little girls."
"Yes, monsieur; and you don't want me to take her a bouquet too?"
"Nonsense! what good do bouquets do? There's nothing so commonplace! Do you suppose that I intend to copy Monsieur Bistelle? No, no, never a bouquet; I don't need that sort of thing to succeed. Go, Frontin; if the young shirtmaker asks you at what time I can receive her, say that she is entirely at liberty to choose the hour that is most convenient to her, and that she will always be welcome. I think that's rather pretty, eh? That's worth more than a bouquet."
Frontin departed, to perform the mission with which his master had intrusted him. But the bouquet sent to Georgette by Bistelle had been seen by the whole house. Instantly, as if he had lighted a train of powder, all the aspirants to the girl's favor had determined that they must not lag behind, and that the moment had come to try to make her acquaintance.
The young literary man who dabbled in poetry purchased a small bunch of violets for two sous—we are all gallant according to our means;—but he wrapped it in a sheet of note paper, whereon he had written this quatrain:
| "Je vous ai vue, agissant à la pompe; |
| En vous tout est charmant, tout est vrai, rien ne trompe; |
| Vous déployez alors des mouvements si doux, |
| Que l'on se damnerait pour pomper avec vous!"[D] |
The young poet gave his bouquet and his verses to the concierge, to be delivered, instructing him to say to the girl that she must read what was written on the paper. A little later, the poet's confrère also appeared with a modest bouquet; but his forte was vaudevilles rather than poetry, so that the offering which accompanied his flowers was a ballad, and he laid the same injunction on the concierge.
Next came the photographer, who sent a package of photographs of the most popular actors. It is well known that young working girls, as a general rule, have a pronounced penchant for actors. Our photographer had no doubt that his gift would be most acceptable, and he told the concierge to say to Mademoiselle Georgette that he would be highly flattered if he might be permitted to photograph her.
Next came the miniature painter, who sent a dainty pasteboard box on which he had painted a swarm of little cupids in exceedingly graceful attitudes. As he handed his box to the concierge, he said:
"You will not fail to assure Mademoiselle Georgette that the artist who executed all these cupids would esteem himself very fortunate if he might paint his neighbor's portrait free of charge, and in whatever costume may be most agreeable to her."
A few moments after the miniature painter, the young doctor appeared and handed the concierge a package, saying:
"Be kind enough to hand this to Mademoiselle Georgette, with my compliments; it contains mauve, linden leaves, and poppy seeds; they are all excellent to take when one has a cold, and it rarely happens that a person goes a whole year without a cold. You will say to the young lady that I solicit her permission to attend her."
Lastly, the old bachelor himself had purchased a box of candied fruit, without his maid-servant's knowledge. But he took care not to intrust his gift to the concierge, for if he did he knew that his servant would certainly be told of it. So he went out on the boulevard and found a little bootblack, to whom he handed his box and gave instructions where to deliver it; and as he did not choose to remain incognito, lest his pretty neighbor should attribute his gift to somebody else, he instructed his messenger to say to her:
"Your neighbor, Monsieur Renardin, sends you this box, with his compliments.—Above all things," he added, "don't stop at the concierge's lodge, and don't speak to him; go straight to Mademoiselle Georgette's room on the entresol. You are paid, so take nothing from her."
Affairs were in this condition when Monsieur de Mardeille sent his valet Frontin to Georgette's room. From early morning, the concierge, having received the presents one after another, had passed all his time going back and forth from his lodge to the entresol, where the young shirtmaker accepted without hesitation everything that was sent to her, simply saying to the concierge:
"Say to monsieur that I thank him."
"Don't forget to read the verses, mademoiselle; there's verses written on the paper," said the concierge, when he delivered the bunches of violets.
"All right; I'll read everything, but I shall not answer anything."
Georgette had read the quatrain, and was humming the vaudevillist's ballad, which was written to the tune of La Boulangère, laughing heartily at the words:
| "Vous avez un minois fripon, |
| Une taille tres-fine; |
| L'œil assassin, le pied mignon, |
| La tournure mutine; |
| J'admire enfin votre jupon |
| Et tout ce qu'on devine |
| De rond, |
| Et tout ce qu'on devine!"[E] |
when the concierge appeared once more, with the package of photographs of actors; and a few moments later with the box adorned with cupids.
"What! more?" said Georgette. "Why, these gentlemen seem to have passed the word around to-day to pay compliments to me!"
"Faith! yes, mademoiselle, they're standing in line at my door. But I don't complain; to tell you the truth, all these young men are well intentioned; all they want is to pay their respects to you; that's what they told me to tell you."
"I accept the little gifts, monsieur; they serve to keep up—pleasant relations; but be good enough to say to these gentlemen that I do not want their respects, and beg them not to take the trouble of coming to offer them to me."
"The devil!" muttered the concierge, as he went away; "the young shirtmaker is one of the virtuous kind, it seems; and these gentlemen won't have anything to show for their presents! But in spite of that, she accepts everything that comes!"
Georgette had just received the package of simples presented by the young doctor and had repeated her previous reply to the concierge, when Monsieur de Mardeille's valet presented himself at her door.
He saluted her with the unceremonious air commonly assumed by servants who think that their appearance is most welcome; and when Georgette asked him what he wanted, he replied in an almost patronizing tone:
"I come, mademoiselle, from my master, Monsieur de Mardeille—the gentleman who lives opposite, on the first floor—an apartment that rents for three thousand francs. My master is very rich; he has more than twenty-five thousand francs a year; he might have a carriage if he chose; he has money enough. The only reason that he hasn't one is that he doesn't want it."
Georgette laughed in the servant's face.
"Well! what of it?" she retorted. "What do you suppose I care whether your master has a carriage or not, or how much he pays for his apartment? Did he send you here to tell me that? Oh! that would be too stupid!"
Monsieur Frontin was a little disconcerted to find that he had not produced more effect. He continued, in a less lofty tone:
"No, mademoiselle, no; my master didn't send me here to tell you that. But I thought—I supposed you would be glad to be informed. One likes to know with whom one is dealing."
"Do your errand; that will be better than your long speeches."
This time Frontin was altogether disconcerted; he expected to find a young seamstress only too delighted to receive a message from his master, and he found that he had to do with a young woman who seemed strongly inclined to laugh at him. So he decided to be very polite, and said in a respectful tone:
"My master, mademoiselle, having occasion to have some shirts made, and knowing that you work in that line, requests you to be kind enough to call at his apartment, so that he may give you his order and be measured."
"Monsieur," replied Georgette, in a very decided tone, "you will say to your master that I am not in the habit of calling upon unmarried men. If he were married, if his wife were with him, why, I would gladly comply with his request, there would be no difficulty about it; but as he is alone——"
"He has a maid, mademoiselle, and myself."
"Servants don't count, monsieur. I shall not go to your master's apartment; if he has an order to give me, he can take the trouble to come here; I will receive him and his twenty-five thousand francs a year, with or without a carriage!"
Frontin was piqued; in the first place, because the young woman had said that servants did not count; and secondly, because she seemed to make very little account of his master's exalted position. He replied, with evident irritation:
"Why, where would be the harm, mademoiselle? Suppose you should come to Monsieur de Mardeille's rooms; you wouldn't be the first one to do it! He receives ladies—a great many ladies! And they are ladies, too, who don't work for everybody."
"Monsieur le valet de chambre, you are a donkey! You talk nothing but nonsense!"
"What's that? I am a donkey! Allow me——"
"I don't doubt that your master receives many ladies, and for that very reason I don't propose to add to the number."
"But——"
"Enough of this! You have my answer; go and repeat it to Monsieur de Mardeille."
Frontin was on the point of making some retort, when a great uproar in the courtyard attracted the attention of all the tenants of the house.
X
A BOX OF CANDIED FRUIT
The reader will remember that Monsieur Renardin, one of Georgette's neighbors, who had a maid of all work, had purchased a box of candied fruit and had employed a little bootblack to deliver it to Georgette, and had told him that she lived on the entresol at the rear of the courtyard.
But the young fellow, who was a messenger as well as a bootblack, was a child of Auvergne, and had just as much intelligence as he required to black boots or to carry a pail of water; almost all water carriers are Auvergnats. He put the box of candied fruit under his arm; it was carefully wrapped in white paper and tied with pink ribbon. He entered the designated house, and, passing the concierge's door with his head in the air, started across the courtyard; but the concierge, who had seen him pass, ran out of his lodge and stopped him, saying:
"Where in the devil are you going, you young scamp? What do you mean by marching by my door without a word? That's no way to go into a house, do you hear, Savoyard?"
"I ain't no Savoyard, I'm an Auvergnat."
"Savoyard or Auvergnat! I don't care which, they're the same thing! Where are you going, I say?"
"I'm not speaking to you! I'm going straight ahead."
"I see that you don't speak to me; but I speak to you; I'm the concierge, and I have a right to question you, and you must answer."
"I'm not to speak to the concierge, that's my orders. I'm going straight ahead."
"What an obstinate little beggar! I tell you, you shan't pass till I know where you're going!"
"But I tell you I'm going straight ahead to take this box."
"Where?"
"I won't tell you."
"I'll make you tell me! What's in the box? explosive stuff, perhaps? If you won't answer, I'll take you and your box before the magistrate."
The concierge seized the boy's arm; he struggled and wept, and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"Let me be—you big thief! Monsieur Renardin, your neighbor, sent me here, and I'll tell him that you wouldn't let me do my errand!"
Mademoiselle Arthémise, the old bachelor's servant, crossed the courtyard at that moment. Hearing her master's name, she stopped short, then ran to the messenger.
"Monsieur Renardin!" she cried; "who wants Monsieur Renardin? This little fellow?—What do you want of him?"
"Why, no, he doesn't want him; he says that he comes here from him," said the concierge; "if the little donkey had only said that at first, I'd have let him pass."
"From him—he comes from him? Then it's me he wants. Monsieur Renardin must have sent him to me. What do you want of me, my boy?"
The little Auvergnat looked at Mademoiselle Arthémise, who was a strapping, red-faced wench of about thirty, with stray hairs on her chin and upper lip that made her look like a man disguised as a woman.
"Be you Mademoiselle Georgette?" he asked.
"Mademoiselle Georgette!" replied the stout servant, with a savage glare. "Yes, yes, that's me."
"And you live in the entresol yonder?"
"Yes, yes, it's me, I tell you! Did Monsieur Renardin send you to bring that box to Mademoiselle Georgette, on the entresol?"
"Yes; it's from your neighbor, with all his compliments, mademoiselle."
"Ah! we'll just look and see what he sends to that hussy!"
And Mademoiselle Arthémise seized the box and was beginning to tear off the wrapper, when the concierge called to her:
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle; you take that box when you know perfectly well it isn't for you."
"What business is it of yours? What do you want to meddle in it for, you low-lived porter? Does the shirtmaker pay you to look after her lovers' presents?"
"No, mademoiselle, the shirtmaker doesn't pay me, but I'm bound to do my duty; if that Auvergnat Savoyard had said what he wanted, I'd have let him pass and carry to Mademoiselle Georgette what he had for her."
"Oh, yes! everybody knows that you look after the lovers; that's your business, you know."
"My business is to see that the tenants get what's addressed to them. Give me that box, which isn't for you."
"Not if I know it! Candied fruits! apricots! Look at this, will you! He gives candied fruits to that slut, and he says there's no need of my putting mushrooms in the chicken fricassee! that I spend too much money! that I ain't economical! Just wait! just wait! I'll give you candied prunes and cherries packed in straw!"
"But I tell you again to give me that box, Mademoiselle Arthémise; you are not Mademoiselle Georgette!"
The little Auvergnat, who was just beginning to understand that he had made a botch of his errand, interposed at that point.
"What! ain't you the lady on the entresol?" he asked.
"Bah! hold your tongue, you brat, it's none of your business! Here, here's an orange; put that down and show me your heels!"
And Mademoiselle Arthémise stuffed a piece of candied orange into the bootblack's mouth. He accepted and ate it; but he was none the less determined to recover the box. He tried to take it away from Monsieur Renardin's maid, and the concierge seconded his efforts. But the stout Arthémise was a muscular wench, able to contend with more formidable antagonists. She began by throwing a slice of quince in the boy's face; then she planted a candied apricot on the concierge's left eye, whereat he cried out like an ass whose eye has been put out; then she dealt blows indiscriminately to right and left.
It was the outcries of the concierge and the little Auvergnat, blended with roars of laughter from Mademoiselle Arthémise, that had brought all the tenants to their windows. To add to the uproar, Monsieur Renardin appeared at that moment, uneasy because his messenger had not returned, and curious to know how the pretty shirtmaker had received his gift.
The bachelor was horrified when he saw the little Auvergnat on all fours, looking for the piece of quince, which had fallen to the ground; the concierge yelling and cursing as he removed the apricot from his eye, piece by piece; and lastly, the maid of all work, stuffing herself with candied fruit and saying:
"It's mighty good, all the same! I never tasted it before, but I'll make him give me some now."
"What does this mean, Arthémise? What are you doing here in the courtyard, instead of attending to your dinner?" inquired Monsieur Renardin, with a frown.
"My dinner! Deuce take the dinner! it can take care of itself. I'm having a treat, I am! I'm eating candied cherries and pears! I say, monsieur, when you go about it, you send nice presents to young ladies! But you'd better choose a page who ain't quite so stupid as this one; he took me for the hussy of the entresol. Oh, my! I didn't say anything; I just took the box."
"What's that? you little rascal! is this the way you do errands?"
"No, monsieur; it wasn't my fault. Why wouldn't the concierge let me in?"
"I did my duty; this Savoyard's a fool, and I was just going to send him to the entresol when Mademoiselle Arthémise told him she was Mademoiselle Georgette, and that the box was for her."
"What, Arthémise! you dared——"
"Hoity-toity! why should I have hesitated? This little brat brings a box from you—of course, I thought it was for me. As if I could suppose that a man of your age would pay court to young girls! that he'd lay out money for the first pert-faced minx that perches in the house! that he'd send boxes of candied fruit to a new-comer, a shirtmaker, when he growls every day because, as he says, I put too much butter in a sauce that——"
"Enough, mademoiselle! that will do; come with me, and we will have an explanation upstairs. I don't choose to have the whole house know what goes on in my establishment."
And Monsieur Renardin walked hastily toward the stairs, not daring to look at the windows of the entresol. Mademoiselle Arthémise followed her master, making faces behind his back; she still had the box of candied fruit in her hand, and she called out to the concierge, laughing in his face:
"I don't care a snap of my finger! I always get the good things. As for monsieur, as he don't like bread soup, he can make up his mind to eat nothing else for a week!"
"If my eye is injured, mademoiselle," said the concierge, "you'll have to pay the doctor!"
"Count on it, my dear man; apply to Monsieur Renardin; he's the cause of it all! He's an old rake, and nothing else!"
Georgette had overheard all this from her room, and it had amused her immensely. Monsieur Frontin, who was on the landing, had stopped there, in order not to lose a word of the altercation and to be able to report it faithfully to his master. When there was no one left in the courtyard, the little Auvergnat having decamped after picking up the piece of quince, the valet returned to the front building and to his master's apartment. He began by attempting to tell him what had just taken place in the courtyard; but Monsieur de Mardeille interrupted him: