“We shall see!”
“Then will you have a little affection for me?”
“Haven’t I already? do you doubt it? Yes, I have affection for you, because I know that you are not a ne’er-do-well, a good-for-nothing, like so many others of your age, and because you are so fond of your mother, whose only support you are. Ah! how lucky you are to have your mother, Georget, and to be able to work for her! If I only knew mine, I would take such pleasure in giving her the fruit of my work, in kissing her and coddling her and taking every care of her! Oh, yes! I would have loved my mother dearly! but I never had one, or rather she is dead; or else—she deserted me!”
“There, now it is you who are sad! don’t think about all that any more, mamzelle; they say that children without parents, and without a name, are the ones who always make their fortune.”
“Why! that is easily understood, because then the good Lord takes the place of their family, He never loses sight of them, and gives them good inspirations; and with a protector like Him, they can never fail to make their way.—But you must go, Georget!”
“Yes, mamzelle. Ah! I am happy this morning! my heart is full of joy; I have talked with you, and I shall have a good day.”
“Good! now you are in good spirits, and that is the way I love to see you, the way I would like you to be always, because—Well, it is changing already! your brow is clouded and you turn pale;—what is the matter, Georget? Don’t you feel well?”
The young messenger had, in fact, changed color, and his smiling face, his eyes beaming with happiness, had suddenly assumed a different expression. A single glance in the distance had sufficed to cause this revolution: Georget had caught sight of Monsieur Jéricourt, the handsome man who was in love with the flower girl, walking very slowly in front of the Château d’Eau, not like a person who was going elsewhere, but like one who had come there with a purpose.
Violette followed the direction of Georget’s eyes, and speedily discovered the cause of his change of countenance; thereupon she shrugged her shoulders impatiently and cried:
“Mon Dieu! is it going to begin again?—You are going to do your errand, I hope, Georget?”
“Yes, mamzelle, yes, I’m going, I’m going right away; for if I didn’t, I might do more foolish things. Here comes that perfumed dandy who makes love to you—here he comes again; it seems that he means to come every day now; it’s a regular thing!”
“That gentleman is perfectly free to walk on the boulevard; what makes you think it’s on my account?”
“What makes me think so? why, it’s plain enough; you know as well as I do that it’s on your account. Oh! what a pity that the boulevard’s free to everybody!—I’m going, mamzelle, I’m going!”
Georget made up his mind to go, at last; he passed Jéricourt, upon whom he bestowed a savage glance; but that gentleman did not notice him.
On the previous day the young author had been flatly snubbed by the flower girl, and before witnesses too, which made his discomfiture even more unpalatable. While dining at Bonvalet’s restaurant, with his friend Saint-Arthur and the piquant little actress who was his friend’s mistress, Jéricourt had had to submit to the raillery of Beau Alfred, who, to compensate himself for having been thrown down and having broken his suspenders, had not ceased to repeat:
“It was Jéricourt’s fault! he was making love to the flower girl, and there seemed to be no end to it; but the pretty peddler didn’t bite at his gallantries—I fancy that our dear friend will have nothing to show for his seductive propositions. Ha! ha! ha! repulsed with heavy loss by a flower girl! It’s incredible, it’s most annoying! He doesn’t choose to admit it, but I am sure that he’s terribly annoyed.”
And Mademoiselle Zizi, the young actress who was so alluring in salacious rôles, and who perhaps had her own reasons for taking the thing to heart, outdid the little man in jocose remarks, and exclaimed with a most significant glance at Jéricourt:
“Ah! that was well done! it was well done! How pleased I am! I shouldn’t be any happier if I were offered an engagement at the Palais-Royal! What a nice little story to tell at the theatre! How they will laugh!—Ah! so our author friends affect flower girls, do they? that is very fine! Instead of sticking to actresses, who at least are in their line, and whom it would certainly induce to put more fire and talent into their parts—Ha! ha! to make love to a flower girl, and to have nothing to show for it! how humiliating!—Poor Jéricourt! he looks as glum as an owl.”
The young author, affecting the utmost tranquillity, simply replied to these attacks:
“If that young flower girl should appear on the stage, I’ll wager that she would eclipse many people who think now that they have a hold on the public!”
“Is that meant for me?” cried Mademoiselle Zizi, throwing a lobster claw in Jéricourt’s face.
“Why, no! of course not!” hastily interposed Saint-Arthur, as the author did not respond. “For you! upon my word! how can you imagine such a thing, when Jéricourt is wild over your talent? For he has told me so a hundred times; he says that you will replace Déjazet.—Haven’t you said that to me often, Jéricourt?”
But the angry author continued to maintain an obstinate silence, which increased the irritation of the little actress.
“In any event,” she cried, “no one will be able to judge of my talent in any of monsieur’s plays; for some time past he has given me nothing but unimportant parts.”
“I give you more than my brother authors do, for they don’t give you any parts at all.”
“What does that prove? That all authors belong to a coterie; that they allow themselves to be inveigled by the prayers of this one and the enticements of that one, or by the advice of the manager, who has his reasons for looking after still another one. O the stage! O you authors! it’s shocking, the injustice we have to put up with; and then they throw a flower girl in our faces! and tell us that she has only to appear to leave us behind! In that case, we’re only stop-gaps, eh?—Oh! it’s an outrage! it’s abominable! O God! my nerves! I am suffocating! I am dying!”
And Mademoiselle Zizi threw herself back on the divan, stretching out her legs and arms, gnashing her teeth, and wriggling like one possessed; whereupon Beau Saint-Arthur quickly seized a carafe, exclaiming in a tone of deep distress:
“The deuce! now she’s going to have a nervous attack; that’s very pleasant. The devil take you, Jéricourt, you’re the cause of it all; you spoke so roughly to her! Look, see how rigid she is!”
“That will pass away!” replied Jéricourt very calmly, helping himself to some truffled calves’ brains.
“Canaille!” muttered Mademoiselle Zizi, still rigid.
And Alfred, as he approached his charmer with a glass of cold water, was repulsed by her so sharply that a part of the contents of the glass splashed in his face, while the young woman muttered, taking pains to grind her teeth together:
“I want my blue phial with the opal stopper; I must have it.”
“Where is it, dear love? Shall I feel in your pocket?”
“Don’t come near me. My phial is at my rooms, on my dressing table in the boudoir.”
“Very good—I’ll send a waiter.”
“No, monsieur, I insist on your going yourself; the waiter would make some mistake.”
“But you haven’t two blue phials, and——”
“I insist on your going yourself, or else I won’t try to live.”
These last words were accompanied by such violent gnashing of the teeth, that the affectionate Alfred, fearing that his mistress would dislocate her jaw, hastened to take his hat, saying to Jéricourt:
“I must humor her; you see what a paroxysm she is having, and her blue phial contains some salt, I don’t know what—some mixture that brings her round at once. So that she often sends me to get it, for she never remembers to take it with her. I will run to her house; luckily it isn’t far—Rue Basse. But for all that it isn’t amusing.—Don’t leave her, Jéricourt, above all things; do what you can for her.”
“Never fear.”
The dandified Saint-Arthur, leaving Bonvalet’s, almost ran to Rue Basse-du-Temple, and on reaching his mistress’s abode, was received by her maid, who also was dining, and who had hurriedly locked the dining-room door, taking the precaution to remove the key; she ushered the young lion into the salon, saying:
“Come in here, monsieur, and wait; I’ll go and fetch madame’s phial.”
“I could have waited in the reception room just as well; I’m in a hurry.”
“No, indeed, monsieur, I should think not! I know too well what I owe you; stay here, I won’t be long.”
“Don’t bring the wrong phial!”
“Oh! there’s no danger of that—madame sends for it often enough. I know what she uses it for.”
Left alone in the salon, Alfred lost patience; he returned to the reception room, where he was nearer madame’s boudoir; thereupon he heard quite distinctly the rattle of knives and forks and glasses, and the popping of corks, which sounds proceeded from the dining-room.
He even heard a sneeze, so loud that the doors shook. But the maid returned with the blue phial with the opal stopper and handed it to the young man, saying:
“Why didn’t monsieur stay in the salon? Perhaps monsieur heard noises in the dining-room? Madame’s two cats are dining with me; they amuse me and are good company for me.”
“My dear girl, one of them has a cold in the head; he sneezes pretty loud for a cat—loud enough to break the windows.”
“Oh! monsieur is mistaken, the sneezing was in the yard. The concierge does nothing else; it’s downright disgusting!”
Paying no further heed to what the maid said, our young elegant, armed with the precious phial, ran back to the restaurant, and going at once to the door of his private room, tried to open it; but to no purpose did he turn the knob, the door was bolted inside.
Saint-Arthur began to knock and call.
“What does this mean? It’s I, Zizi!—Jéricourt! Why do you lock yourselves in? What’s the meaning of this jest?”
“Have you brought the phial?” murmured the young actress in an altered voice.
“Yes, of course I’ve brought it.”
“Is it my blue phial?”
“To be sure; I know it well enough.”
“With the opal stopper?”
“The stopper is in it! It’s perfectly tight.”
“Well! take it back, that isn’t the one I want; I want the yellow one with an agate stopper.”
“Oh! this is too much! Zizi, you abuse my good nature.—Open the door, Jéricourt.”
“I should be delighted to, but madame says no. She has taken a knife and threatens to bury it in her breast if I take a step toward the door.”
“Oh! in that case, don’t budge, my friend! do me the favor not to budge, stay where you are! I know the mad creature; she would do some insane thing or other. I will run and fetch the yellow phial!”
And the simple-minded fellow started off again to get the yellow phial.
To those who say that this is an improbable incident, we reply that we have seen such ladies make the man whose fortune they were squandering do much more improbable things; and, in truth, they are quite right to do it, when they find blockheads ready to gratify all their whims.
On returning with the yellow phial, Alfred opened the door without difficulty. He found Jéricourt still at the table, attacking the dishes with more ardor than ever; and Mademoiselle Zizi, with cheeks as red as cherries, flew into his arms, crying:
“I wanted to put your love and trust to the proof, dear love, and you have come out triumphant from the trial; you are worthy of my affection; I give it to you once more, and more entirely; let me kiss you on the left eye.”
Alfred submitted to the caress, smiling at Jéricourt with an expression that seemed to say: “You see how she loves me!”—And the dinner came to an end most amiably; everybody was satisfied.
IX
THREE FOR A BOUQUET
But the result of that dinner was that Jéricourt’s thoughts recurred to Violette, and he said to himself:
“They made fun of me to-day on the subject of the flower girl; if I don’t succeed with her, they will do it again. That will injure my reputation; I shall seem as big a donkey as Saint-Arthur. I have gone too far to stop. Besides, the girl is so pretty! I am inclined to think that I love her; I am not quite sure of it, but it may be so. I did not lie when I said that she would outshine Mademoiselle Zizi; she’s worth ten, yes, a hundred Zizis!—I have an idea: suppose I should advise her to go on the stage? she would be a charming actress, and I can find managers enough who will be delighted to bring her out. I will give her lessons and advice.—By Jove! that’s an excellent idea of mine. One of these days I will work it into a vaudeville.—Violette will not hold out against that proposition. The stage! the hope of making a sensation on the boards, the pleasure of appearing in a lot of unusual costumes—those things always fascinate a girl. This one must be as much of a coquette as the others, or she wouldn’t be a woman! She will give way, and I shall triumph. A flower girl turned into an actress—what would there be so surprising in that? We have seen great talents start from much lower down in the scale. And then, when a woman is pretty, it takes so many difficulties out of the way. The thing will go all alone.—I really must make a play out of this idea.”
With such thoughts in his mind, Jéricourt came to the Château d’Eau the next day, and he lost no time in accosting the flower girl, who was still looking after the young man who had found it so hard to leave her.
“Good-morning, my lovely flower girl.”
“Good-morning, monsieur.”
“Oh! what a curt tone! I see that you are still angry with me.”
“I, monsieur? Why so?”
“Why, on account of what I said yesterday.”
“Oh! I forgot that long ago! Such things go in at one ear and out at the other; they never stay in my head.”
“If they stayed in your heart, that would be better.”
“Thank heaven, my heart doesn’t waste any time on such nonsense!”
“Mademoiselle Violette, you will not always talk like this, unless nature has given you a heart protected by a triple steel cuirass.”
“Oh! I don’t wear a cuirass, monsieur; a corset’s quite enough!—Do you want to buy a bouquet, monsieur?”
“In a moment. I have many things to say to you, and I would like to talk with you first.”
“If it’s to repeat what you said yesterday, I assure you it isn’t worth while to begin the conversation.”
“Are you afraid that I am going to talk of love?—You have a way of saying things that is far from encouraging!”
“Mon Dieu! I don’t choose my words; I say just what I think.”
“A woman who says what she thinks! do you know that they are very rare?”
“I say, do you know that you ain’t very complimentary to women? Have they caught you very often?”
“That isn’t what I meant. Look you, Violette, I admit that I did wrong yesterday; I spoke to you as if I were certain that you loved me, and you hadn’t given me any right to do it.”
“Just as soon as you admit that you did wrong, that’s the end of it, it’s all forgotten. Let’s talk about something else.”
“It isn’t that my feeling for you has changed; on the contrary, I adore you more than ever!”
“I say—it seems to me you’re beginning yesterday’s song again!”
“No; yesterday I made certain propositions that displeased you.”
“Pardi! they were very pretty, your propositions! to dine with monsieur at a restaurant! to offer to furnish lodgings for me! Why on earth don’t you marry me and be done with it?”
“That might have come in time!”
“Yes, in the thirteenth arrondissement! But I prefer the other twelve. As for furniture, I have some, monsieur, and it’s my very own; Mère Gazon left it to me; it ain’t violet wood, to be sure, but it’s good enough for me; and besides, I think a great deal of it, in memory of the one who gave it to me.”
“All that is very praiseworthy, no doubt; but I don’t think that there’s anything wrong in trying to improve one’s position, to make a fortune; that’s the object of all who haven’t money, and no one has ever blamed them.”
“Make a fortune! To be sure, that ain’t unpleasant, that is, if you do it by honest means! If not, one had better stay in one’s little corner.”
“Oh! bless my soul! who said anything about ceasing to be honest? What extraordinary creatures these girls are—always thinking that somebody means to lead them astray!”
“That’s because we know you, my fine gentlemen; and, if I remember right, you didn’t propose to me yesterday that I should become a rosière.”[A]
[A] The maiden who wins the rose offered as a prize for virtue in certain villages.
“Listen, Violette; I will come straight to the point.”
“Well! let us hear what your point is.”
“You have been to the play sometimes, of course?”
“Why, yes, several times.”
“And you like it?”
“I should say that I do like it! I think it’s beautiful, and if I was rich, I’d go often.”
“And what do you think of the actresses? Don’t you think it must be delightful to appear in public, to be applauded, to wear hundreds of different costumes, and to be stared at and admired by a whole theatre full of people?”
“Oh! how fast you go! That must be fine when one has talent. I have seen some women who acted so well that you couldn’t get tired listening to them; but I’ve seen others who acted so poorly that everybody grumbled, and laughed when they were trying to make you cry. I have seen some pretty ones; but there are some terribly ugly ones; and it’s no use for them to wear handsome costumes and a lot of paint on their faces; it don’t make them any better-looking.—But what makes you say all this to me?”
“Because, Violette, if you choose to go on the stage, it rests with you to do it; a glorious career is open to you, and I am sure that you will succeed, that you will obtain glory and wealth at once!”
“I an actress!—Are you making fun of me again, monsieur?”
“No, indeed, I am speaking in all seriousness. Listen to me: I am a dramatic author, so that the stage is my livelihood, or rather my constant study; therefore you must admit that I ought to know something about it. You have all that is needed for success on the stage: your figure is well set up, you are tall but not too tall; your face is lovely.—Oh! I am not paying compliments; indeed, you must know that you are pretty, you have been told so often enough! Your voice is clear and well modulated; with all these advantages and the lessons I will give you in declamation and in carrying yourself on the stage, it is impossible that you should not make a grand success. As for your getting a chance to make your début, that is my concern; I will undertake that and I shall have no difficulty. Better still, I will give you a part, a splendid part, in my next play; and as a reward of my zeal, of my lessons, of all that I will do for you, I will not ask you for anything,—except a little gratitude when you are a popular actress.—Well! what do you say? isn’t that better than being a flower girl?”
“Is that all you’re buying this morning, monsieur?”
“But you don’t answer my proposition, Violette. Don’t you understand that I am offering you a brilliant future—all the enjoyments, all the pleasures of life? And that won’t interfere with your remaining virtuous.”
“It’s too risky in that business! No, thank you, monsieur, all this don’t tempt me; it amuses me to see other people act, but it don’t make me want to act myself. Everyone to his taste, and I prefer my flowers to your stage.”
“Nonsense! it isn’t possible that you refuse, when I undertake to remove all obstacles.”
“Buy this bouquet;—just see what a pretty one it is, and what a sweet smell! I’ll bet that it don’t smell so good in your wings.”
“Surely, this isn’t your last word, Violette? You will think it over, and you will accept.”
“Oh! my reflecting’s all done, monsieur; it don’t take long with me; I know right off what suits me. I don’t feel any calling for the stage.”
“But I tell you——”
“Don’t take the trouble to say any more, monsieur; you’ll just waste your words, and that would be a pity, as you make your business out of them, and you sell wit on paper.”
Jéricourt was so vexed by the rejection of his proposition, when he expected a complete triumph, that he was tongue-tied, and could not think of a single word to answer the flower girl.
At that moment he felt a hand on his arm, and someone said to him:
“Good-day, Monsieur Jéricourt; I recognized you from behind by your cane; I said: ‘That’s my neighbor’s cane.’—How are you?”
Jéricourt turned and found himself face to face with the little young man who squinted so horribly and whom we have already met at the Château d’Eau flower market, with his mother and sister—Monsieur Astianax Glumeau, whose room was on the floor above his parents, on the same landing as Jéricourt’s apartment.
“Ah! is it you, young man?” said the author, as, with a patronizing air, he offered a finger to little Astianax, who deemed himself highly honored by that favor; because, in his eyes, a man who wrote plays which were actually performed was a demigod. “What are you here for, my little rake? to buy a bouquet for some fair one whom you are courting, I suppose?”
“Oh! upon my word, Monsieur Jéricourt! I should not dare—I am too young as yet. However, it isn’t the inclination that is lacking.”
“How old are you, pray?”
“Nineteen.”
“At that age I had already had fifty love-affairs!”
“Oh! but you—an author—that’s a very different matter; you weren’t shy.”
“I never was that; there is nothing more disastrous for a man. If you take my advice, you will cure yourself of that failing.”
“Papa and mamma don’t say so; they want to keep me in leading strings like a poodle. Let them keep my sister so if they choose; that’s all right—she’s a girl! But me! Yes, you’re right; there’s nothing more foolish than a bashful man. But I don’t propose to be bashful any more; I feel inclined to make people talk about me.—Were you buying flowers, Monsieur Jéricourt?”
“Yes—that is to say, I was looking over them; I haven’t decided yet.”
Little Astianax put his mouth to his neighbor’s ear and whispered:
“The flower girl’s mighty pretty!”
“Do you think so? That’s a matter of taste.”
“Hum! nonsense! Anybody can see that; I noticed her yesterday; I came with mamma and my sister to buy some flowers, because it was papa’s birthday. I didn’t buy any; I gave him some nougat.”
“A very pretty bouquet that!”
“Oh! it doesn’t make any difference, I am going to give him some flowers to-day; and I came here again, for I dreamed of the flower girl all night.”
“Really!”
“Yes, yes; I was a pacha and she was a slave.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Jéricourt aloud, turning to Violette, “here’s a young man who dreamed about you all night, just because he saw you yesterday.”
Monsieur Astianax turned scarlet; he pulled the skirt of Jéricourt’s coat and whispered: “Oh! I won’t tell you anything more! You make me blush!”
“Don’t be alarmed; on the contrary, I am acting in your interest; you are in love with mademoiselle—very good, I tell her so for you. Who knows? perhaps you will be more fortunate than the rest of us, especially as you have all that a man requires to succeed.”
Jéricourt uttered the last words in such an ironical tone that any other than little Astianax would have taken them in very bad part; but he, on the contrary, accepted them as the truth; he smiled and twisted his mouth into the shape of an ace of spades, while his eyes shot flames to right and left.
Violette restrained the intense desire to laugh caused by young Astianax’s contortions of feature; she said as she arranged her flowers:
“Come, monsieur, choose. Do you want a bouquet? Here’s a very pretty one,—as monsieur doesn’t take it.”
“Yes—that is to say, you must make me one; but I’ll explain what you must put in it: I want some heliotrope—that’s the flower of witty people; then some myrtle—that means interest, affection; and a tulip in the centre—that means an honest heart, decent behavior.”
“What, my dear Astianax, does the tulip mean all that?” said Jéricourt, laughingly; “I should never have suspected it. The devil! you are very learned about flowers. Go on—what else do you want?”
“A few red carnations—they mean that one would fight at need for the object of one’s love; I put them in for myself, you understand; then a poppy and some immortelles—they promise strength and health, and they will please my father, for he is always thinking that he’s sick; he took a bottle of lemonade only this morning—you know, the kind of lemonade that purges.—Surround the whole with pansies, and I shall have a bouquet full of meaning—a genuine selam.”
“Bravo, young man, bravo! With such bouquets you will make your way very rapidly with the ladies!”
“This one is for papa; but later, I hope——”
“I am very sorry, monsieur,” said Violette, “but I can’t make such a bouquet as you want; I have no red carnations; you will hardly find any at this season, and I haven’t any myrtle, or any poppies.”
“The devil! that’s annoying; but I should be sorry to apply to another flower girl; on the contrary, I mean to give you my custom.”
“I am quite sure, monsieur, that no other flower girl will have what you want—not in this quarter, at all events. Take my advice, monsieur, and buy this bouquet that I was offering to monsieur—just roses and violets; it’s very pretty, and it’s the last one; I haven’t got anything left to make one like it.”
“I don’t say that it isn’t very nice, but it doesn’t express my meaning—and it isn’t a selam, either.”
“But just see the pretty roses, the lovely buds! Anybody would say it was a lovely bouquet.”
“And I agree with anybody; the bouquet is as pretty as the seller; and faith! that’s saying a great deal!”
These last words were uttered by a gentleman of mature years, dressed with some elegance, whose bearing, whose manners, and whose smile even, instantly pointed him out as one who frequented the best society. His features were regular, refined and distinguished; but they also indicated that their owner had taken a great deal out of life; his face was worn, the flesh beneath his eyes was puffed out, his forehead and cheeks were furrowed with wrinkles. In a word, he was naught but a remnant of a very good-looking man, but he still had the comme il faut manner, the intelligent eye, and the slightly impertinent and satirical tone.
This individual was leaning on a very handsome cane, holding in his right hand an eyeglass through which he was examining Violette; he had paused in front of her booth and listened to her last words; and with his eyes fixed upon her lovely face, he muttered between his teeth:
“It’s strange! there is a resemblance—to whom I can’t say; but I know a face like that.”
Jéricourt and little Astianax were greatly surprised when they saw the newcomer take the bouquet from the girl’s hands, saying:
“How much for this bouquet?”
“Three francs, monsieur.”
“Three francs! Pardieu! that’s nothing at all; bouquets seem to be cheap in this quarter. I’ll take it. Here, my pretty flower girl, pay yourself.”
And he handed Violette a five-franc piece; whereupon little Astianax stood on tiptoe and cried:
“But I bargained for that bouquet before you did, monsieur, and I am going to buy it. You can’t purchase it, not you.”
The gentleman contented himself with a disdainful glance at the young man as he repeated:
“Here, my girl, pay yourself.”
At this point Jéricourt thought fit to take part in the discussion. He stepped between Astianax and the stranger, and, assuming a self-sufficient tone, remarked to the latter:
“I was the first one who negotiated for that bouquet; so the flower girl has no right to sell it to anybody else, as I am ready to pay the price she asked. Be kind enough to give it to me, monsieur;—do you understand?”
The elderly gentleman simply turned his eyeglass on Jéricourt, and holding his head a little sidewise, said with an ironical smile:
“When I was your age, monsieur, I never allowed anything that I had in hand to be taken from me, and I have clung to that habit as I grew older;—do you understand?”
The gentleman’s self-assured manner and the tone of persiflage in which he made this retort surprised our man of letters, who did not know just what to do; but it was not so with little Astianax, who was furious because the stranger seemed to pay no heed to him, to treat him like a child. He stepped up to him, looked him in the face as well as he could, and shouted, in a voice which anger made exceedingly shrill:
“I don’t know why monsieur didn’t answer me! You see, I don’t allow myself to be insulted! I don’t propose to be treated like a child, I don’t! I have plenty of spunk, I have!”
“So! you are spunky, are you, my good friend?” rejoined the gentleman, turning his glass upon Astianax. “Indeed! so much the better! I congratulate you, for it may be a good thing for you when you grow up.”
“What’s that? when I grow up? I am nineteen years old, monsieur, and at that age one isn’t afraid of anybody!”
“Nonsense! nonsense! that isn’t possible! You mean nine.”
This remark made little Astianax tremble with rage; he stamped the ground and seemed disposed to rush at the gentleman, who continued to stare at him and even ventured to smile as he scrutinized him. Violette, fearing that the little man would resort to violence, had risen to restrain him, and Jéricourt, whom the quarrel seemed to amuse, was wondering what would happen next, when the scene changed as suddenly as when the manager’s whistle is heard at the Opéra.
On the boulevard, however, Chicotin Patatras acted once more as the scene-shifter.
Georget’s friend had been sauntering about the Château d’Eau for several minutes; being desirous to spend during the morning all the money that he had left from the day before, the young rascal had breakfasted so sumptuously that his brain was a little excited, and he felt in the mood for perpetrating a practical joke. In this frame of mind, he had noticed that several gentlemen were standing in front of the flower girl’s booth, and he soon recognized Jéricourt as the man whom he had tried to throw down on the preceding day. He said to himself instantly:
“Why shouldn’t I do to-day what I missed doing yesterday? My little Georget don’t like that scented dandy; he’s there again, prowling round the flower girl; if I knock him over, I shall be doing a friend a favor, and then too it’s fun for me. I must go about it playfully; Chopard ain’t here to push me—that’s a shame.—Ah! pardi! I’ll just go and grab that cabby’s glazed hat, as he stands dreaming there by his horses; of course he’ll chase me, and I’ll run between my man’s legs.”
Chicotin put his plan into execution forthwith. The cabman, bereft of his hat, ran after the gamin, shouting at the top of his lungs; he fled in the direction of the flower girl and hurled himself suddenly against the legs of someone, whom he bowled over, while the others hastily stepped aside; but Chicotin had missed his aim again; it was not Jéricourt, but little Astianax, who was sprawling on the asphalt.
“Upon my word, Mademoiselle Violette, it’s impossible to stop in front of your booth, it seems!” said Jéricourt, turning angrily away. “I congratulate you on the way you treat your customers, and especially on the champion you have chosen for that purpose. If it’s for him that you insist on remaining a flower girl, it doesn’t speak well for your taste.”
“What’s that? what did the dark-haired dandy say?” cried Chicotin, rising and tossing the cabman his hat. “I didn’t understand his apology.”
“I don’t know what the gentleman said,” exclaimed Violette, “but I do know this, Monsieur Chicotin, that you have played the same trick two days in succession on people who were standing in front of my shop; and I propose that it shall stop; if not, I know to whom to complain.”
During this exchange of words, young Astianax had risen, with a lump on his forehead, and both knees of his trousers torn; because he wore straps under his feet, which inevitably caused the cloth to tear at the slightest strain.
The rents that he saw in his trousers seemed to distress young Astianax; he heaved a deep sigh and muttered:
“Sapristi! and it’s only the second time I have worn them!”
Thereupon, giving no further thought to the bouquet or to his quarrel, the little fellow walked rapidly away, trying to hold his hands over the holes in his garments, which his short coat did not cover.
Meanwhile the elderly gentleman had held the bouquet in his hand, still leaning rather heavily on his cane.
“Nobody will dispute possession of these flowers with me any more,” he said at last. “My two rivals have abandoned the ground; it’s a dangerous place, it seems, if I am to believe what that gentleman said.—Ha! ha! you rascal! is it true that you amuse yourself throwing down mademoiselle’s customers?”
“Oh, no! it’s only a joke, monsieur!” Chicotin replied slyly; “but I have bad luck, I never hit the ones I aim at.”
“Were you aiming at me, pray?”
“No, indeed, monsieur; of course not!”
“Because, you see, I have the gout, and if you had knocked me down, it might have been a more serious matter for me than for that little man, who ought not to have lost the habit of tumbling yet.”
“Oh! monsieur, if I had had that misfortune, I should never have forgiven myself; but I’d have picked you up.”
“That would have been most generous on your part; but I prefer that you shouldn’t have any occasion to pick me up. You look to me like a genuine ne’er-do-well; but I don’t dislike knaves of your sort.”
“Monsieur’s a good judge.”
“Would you like to come with me? I’ll give you an errand to do.”
“Yes, monsieur, why not? And you won’t be sorry that you chose me; I do errands in first-class shape!”
“Very good! if I am satisfied with you, I will give you my work. What’s your name?”
“Chicotin—nicknamed Patatras because——”
“Parbleu! I have a shrewd suspicion why you had that name given you, if you always make your entrée as you did just now, by throwing people down.—But this pretty flower girl doesn’t like the way you treat her customers, and she is right.”
“Bless me! monsieur,” said Violette, “it’s the second time in two days that he has run into my counter like that.”
“It’s the last time, Mamzelle Violette; I promise you I won’t do it again; I’m done.”
“This girl is really lovely!” muttered the gentleman, as he paid for his bouquet. “Whom in the devil does she look like? Faith! I’ve known so many!—Follow me,” he said, turning to Chicotin.
He walked away, leaning on his cane and putting his left foot to the ground with great precaution, which necessarily kept him from walking fast.
And Monsieur Chicotin followed him, taking several steps very rapidly, then falling back to cut a caper or some monkey trick.
“If we keep on at this pace,” he said, “we shan’t beat the railway train.”
X
A DOMESTIC INTERIOR
In a very handsome salon of an apartment on Boulevard Beaumarchais, in one of those fine houses recently built, which make that quarter one of the most attractive in Paris, three persons were assembled: Monsieur Glumeau, his wife and his daughter.
We know the ladies. Monsieur Glumeau, formerly a commission merchant, was a man of fifty years, of medium height, who had never been handsome, but who might have possessed some attractions when he was young, thanks to his light hair, his china-blue eyes—there are people who like china-blue eyes—and above all, to his slender figure, his shapely leg and his small and well-arched foot. As he grew older, Monsieur Glumeau had not taken on flesh like his excellent wife, but had retained a youthful appearance, especially when seen from behind; as to his face, that had become considerably wrinkled, but his eyes were still china-blue, and although he no longer possessed his fair hair, he had replaced it by a wig of the same color.
It is probable that Monsieur Glumeau’s features would not have undergone so sudden a revolution, except for the mania that he had contracted of drugging himself, of putting himself on strict diet for the slightest indisposition. The dread of being ill constantly tormented the ex-commission merchant, and by dint of taking care of his health, he had succeeded in ruining it. His ordinary reading was the fourth page of the large newspapers; he took note of all the infallible remedies announced and extolled by their inventors; he often bought them although he had not the disease which they were supposed to cure; but he would take them all as a matter of precaution, saying to himself: “If I should have this disease, I shall have the remedy at hand.”
To this weakness of mind, far from agreeable in a family, Monsieur Glumeau added the pretension of shining in conversation. He constantly sought to make sharp or clever remarks; but as he was never able to think of any, he often halted on the way, which fact imparted much incoherency to his speech. Lastly, having formerly been what is called a fine dancer, he had retained much liking for that exercise, wherein he could at his pleasure exhibit his foot, of which he was very proud, and upon which he kept his eyes fixed as he danced.
After retiring from business with a very considerable fortune, which had recently been added to by an inheritance, Monsieur Glumeau had purchased a country house at Nogent-sur-Marne; there he had had built in his garden a small theatre, where in the summer his family and friends indulged in the pleasure of theatrical performances, being actors and spectators in turn. Monsieur Glumeau liked to receive company; the presence of guests made him forget his imaginary diseases; as his wife and his children were also fond of pleasure, the ex-commission merchant’s house was one of those where one was always certain to pass one’s time agreeably; ceremony and etiquette were banished from it, and everyone was at liberty to do what he pleased; the company was sometimes a little mixed but it made up in quantity what it lacked in quality.
At the moment of which we write, the head of the family was in the act of drinking a cup of tea into which he had squeezed the juice of a lemon, because when he woke that morning he had a bitter taste in his mouth.
“I think that this will do me good,” said Monsieur Glumeau, as he drank his tea in little sips; “lemon juice in tea clears up the bile.”
“But why will you have it that you’re bilious, my dear? Your complexion is very clear, you are not yellow.”
“You say I am not yellow, my dear love; that’s a question! I am a little yellow—on one side of my nose; and I don’t propose to wait until I am as yellow as a pumpkin before I take a purgative.”
“Do you mean to say that you propose to purge yourself again? That would be the last straw. You took Sedlitz water a fortnight ago.”
“What does that prove, if I need it again?”
Madame Glumeau shrugged her shoulders, exclaiming:
“You make yourself sick by dosing yourself, Edouard!”
“Why no, my dear love, one doesn’t make oneself sick by taking care of oneself; on the contrary, it prevents one from being sick.”
“You know that we have company to dinner to-day. I trust that you don’t propose to select this moment to take medicine.”
“I am not talking about medicine to-day; but listen: just now I was reading in my paper the announcement of a most valuable discovery.”
“Something to prevent potatoes from being sick?”
“Oh! I am not talking about potatoes!”
“But, my dear, they are so useful, so nourishing, so valuable, so——”
“Let me alone with your potatoes; I don’t like them. What I am talking about is an infallible remedy for the gravel.”
“But you haven’t that, monsieur!”
“What a misfortune it is to be afraid of all diseases!”
“I am not afraid of them, madame, but I simply am on my guard against them; it isn’t from fear, it’s from prudence, from common sense.”
“Bless my soul! if all men resembled you, it would be amusing.”
“What do you mean by that, Lolotte?”
“I mean that by dint of thinking about diseases, you think that you have them all, and it doesn’t tend to make you a lively companion in society.”
“Madame, si vis pacem, para bellum.”
“What does that mean, monsieur?”
“If you wish for peace, prepare for war.”
“What connection has that with your lemon juice in tea?”
“It also means: If you want to be well, look after yourself as if you were ill.”
“Oh! as to that, I don’t believe a word of it; do I dose myself, monsieur? and you see how well I am!”
“It is a fact that you are getting too stout, my dear love; but if you would have consented to take a little white mustard seed, you would have lost flesh.”
“No, thanks, monsieur; I should probably have become like a lath, and I prefer to remain as I am. To hear you talk, one would say that I was enormous.”
“Not exactly, but you haven’t any waist.”
“I haven’t any waist! I haven’t any waist! Upon my word, I guess that it’s your eyes that are diseased; you see crooked.”
“What! why do you say that my eyes are diseased? Is it because they are red? Don’t joke, Lolotte, are my eyes swollen?”
“Ah! so I haven’t any waist! All men don’t think as you do, monsieur, and in spite of my stoutness, if I chose to listen to all the pleasant things that are said to me——”
“Madame! you forget that your daughter is here.—Eolinde, come and look at my eyes; it seems to me that they sting.”
Mademoiselle Eolinde was looking over a volume of plays; instead of answering her father, she cried:
“We must play La Forêt Périlleuse, papa, and I will be the fair Ca—Ca—Camille!”
“Yes, my child, yes, we have already decided to give that play,” said Madame Glumeau; “and we are going to have here to-day all the people who are to take part in the first piece to be given at our country house, in order to distribute the rôles. But the other piece is what hasn’t yet been chosen. We must have a very lively vaudeville.”
“Oh, mamma! let’s give Estelle, ou Le Père et La Fille!”
“I should like to know if you call that a lively vaudeville! My dear girl, when we have theatricals in our house, for our amusement, we mustn’t undertake to make people weep, for the only result is to make them laugh. As a general rule, you are all very bad, but that is what is wanted; the worse actors you are, the more laughter you cause; if you acted well, it would be very dull, I fancy.”
“Oh, mamma! how you ta—ta—talk, just because you—you—do—do—don’t act yourself!”
“If I did, I should try to be funny, that’s all; but I should know my lines, I tell you that; and you never know yours.”
During this conversation between the mother and the daughter, Monsieur Glumeau had risen, had stationed himself in front of a mirror, and was looking at his eyes with a persistent scrutiny which finally ended in making his sight blurred; whereupon he paced the salon, muttering:
“I must get some eye salve; I ought to have a recipe somewhere.”
“But there’s nothing the matter with your eyes, monsieur!” cried Madame Glumeau impatiently; “you apparently propose to make yourself blind now! Why don’t you take the elixir of long life, and have done with it?”
“That wouldn’t be such a bad idea, madame!”
“Oh, yes! do as your friend Boutelet did. Do you remember what happened to him, because he drank heaven knows how many bottles of the elixir of long life in six months? He died of it!”
“Perhaps he would have died six months earlier if he hadn’t drunk it!”
“After three o’clock and Astianax has not come home,” said tall Eolinde; “it isn’t very kind of my brother, for he was to bring us a collection of plays to choose from!”
“Wasn’t it his neighbor, Monsieur Jéricourt, that young author who lives on the fourth floor, who was to lend your brother the plays?”
“Yes, mamma.”
“He has a very attractive look, has that young man, we must invite him to come to our play in the country; eh, Edouard?”
“I have no objection; isn’t he a newspaper man too?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m sorry for that; we must try to have a few newspaper men; they go everywhere in society, they write articles about everything they see, and perhaps they would speak of me in the paper, and I should see myself in print; that would be very nice!—Whom have we to dinner to-day?”
“Why, you must know as well as I do, my dear.”
“Ah! bigre! I really believe that I have a pain in my stomach.”
“Oh dear! that would be the last straw.”
“No, it’s nothing, it’s going away; I was in a constrained position.”
“We expect to dinner Monsieur and Madame Dufournelle; Madame Dufournelle wants to act; she will be terribly awkward on the stage, I fancy, but that’s her business!”
“She is graceful and pretty, and I believe that she will make a success of it.”
“Oh! that’s just like a man! to call that woman pretty, just because she is always laughing, and because she is a great flirt; indeed she carries it so far sometimes as to be almost indecent in her behavior with men!”
“Upon my word, Lolotte! where did you see that?”
“I have seen it more than once; and in our own house, in the country, with you, when she asked you to run after her and defied you to catch her! Monsieur ran like a deer, and then you both disappeared behind a hedge.—You had no pain in your stomach that day!”
“Madame! really, you should not say such things; your daughter can hear you.”
“My daughter will be married some day, monsieur, and there’s no harm in her being warned beforehand of the perfidy of the male sex. Besides, Madame Dufournelle’s coquetry is evident to everybody. Her husband sees nothing in all that! Poor fellow! so long as he has somebody to play billiards with him, he doesn’t care about anything else.”
“He isn’t jealous, madame, and he is very wise; that proves that he has some intelligence.”
“Ah! you think that, do you? I have known husbands of much intelligence who were as jealous as tigers! Say rather that that fat Dufournelle is not in love with his wife. Indeed, he’s too fat to be amorous.”
“Mon Dieu! what spiteful creatures women are! If a man is not jealous, it’s because he doesn’t love them.—I suppose you’d like me to be jealous, madame?”
“You, Edouard! Merciful heaven! that’s all you need,—to have that disease, with all those which you think you have! that would be the climax!”
“Say! suppose we play Les B—b—bains à Do—do—domicile?” cried Eolinde, who was still looking over the plays. “I would be Ninie.”
“My dear girl, do you intend to take all the parts in the plays we give?” said Monsieur Glumeau, admiring his feet. “It seems to me that if you take one part, that will be quite enough; with your defective speech, you know very well that you make plays last an hour longer than they should, and you have a perfect mania for choosing long parts! The last time we gave Andromache everybody thought that your scene with Orestes would never end!”
“Because it was in ve—verse, papa, which is harder for me to pro—pronounce. But when it is p—p—prose, it goes all by itself.”
“So I see! But why in the deuce did you insist on giving a tragedy, then?”
“Oh! my dear, they were quite right!” said Madame Glumeau; “for I assure you that they were enough to make you die of laughter, and you yourself in Pylades,—bless my soul! how fine you were!”
“Madame, you always take everything wrong. I played Pylades very nicely, and if it hadn’t been for my helmet, that kept falling down over my eyes and prevented me from seeing the audience, I should have made a very good impression.”
“Why, you did make a splendid impression, my friend! you looked like a blind man, and that was much more amusing!”
“You are very satirical, my dear love; it is very easy to see that you don’t act!”
“If I acted in private theatricals, I should never lose my temper if people laughed at me.”
“What will you do with Monsieur Dufournelle?”
“He will prompt, that’s his forte! he puffs[B] all the time like an ox!—We also expect little Kingerie; he’s a very good fellow; he does whatever anyone wants him to; he takes whatever parts you give him.”