When the young dandy recovered all his faculties, the thing that troubled him most was that he had broken one of his suspenders, and that his trousers on that side were not held in place.
“All sorts of misfortunes at once,” cried Alfred; “I have broken my left suspender. But who was it, then, who came down on me like a bomb and pushed me onto that counter?”
“Excuse me, master, my excellency, I did it by accident, and not on purpose, for I was fooling with Chopard.”
“What, you scoundrel, was it you?—Ah! I recognize you; I have employed you more than once.”
“Oh! I remember very well! You are one of those generous and distinguished gentlemen that a man doesn’t forget. I have often opened your carriage door, master, and you are always with such pretty ladies, ladies from the theatre, and so well dressed, that everybody looks at you. Shall I wait at Monsieur Bonvalet’s, master, to see if you want to send me to find out how far they’ve got in the play?”
“All right, all right, we’ll see. After all, as he didn’t do it on purpose—And my bouquet, what became of that in the scrimmage?”
“Here it is, monsieur,” said Violette; “luckily nothing happened to it.”
“It’s my broken suspender that worries me most; my trousers are all creased on that side! I’d give thirty francs for a pair of suspenders.”
“Would you like mine, master?”
“No, thanks! That would look nice!”
“I’ll go and buy you a pair at the druggist’s on Rue du Temple.”
“What does the idiot say?” muttered Jéricourt; “suspenders at a druggist’s! do you propose to buy them made of marshmallow paste?”
“At all events I can’t stop here any longer,” cried Alfred; “Zizi will make a horrible row; she will be in an infernal humor; and if she sees that my trousers are creased, it will be much worse! And she will see it, for she always looks at them first when I join her; she is so particular about dress; she said to me once: ‘A man who doesn’t have morocco straps to his boots shall never step foot inside my door!’—Well, Jéricourt, are you coming?”
Tall Jéricourt decided at last to go away with his friend; for the flower girl, busily engaged in picking up her flowers, did not seem disposed to laugh, and he saw that he must needs abandon the idea of being listened to for that day at least. So he walked away, arm-in-arm with Alfred de Saint-Arthur, who, as he walked, did his utmost to hold his trousers up. When he saw the two young men take their leave, Chicotin Patatras nodded his head to Georget, who was not very far away, and who answered with a smile. And Violette, as she tried to replace her flowers in order upon her counter, did not fail to notice that pantomime.
V
A CONCIERGE’S LODGE
In a house of respectable appearance on Rue d’Angoulême, about half-past eleven one evening, the street bell was pulled so violently that it caused Monsieur Baudoin, the concierge, to leap from his chair, upon which he was beginning to doze, while his wife Hildegarde took advantage of his nodding to open a small cupboard and take therefrom a bottle, the neck of which she proceeded to introduce into her mouth, and took several swallows of a fluid which she seemed to enjoy greatly.
Baudoin the concierge was a tall, thin man, with a pale face and light hair, who had passed his fiftieth year, but was still very straight, and as active as a young man. To his occupation of concierge, he added that of clerk in a stage office, which kept him only until six o’clock. He was an honest man, to whom one could fearlessly entrust his house and his treasure; he did promptly whatever he was ordered to do, unless he did not fully understand; but in that case it was not safe to reproach him, for Baudoin lost his temper very readily, having an immeasurable self-esteem and claiming that he never made a mistake. When he did lose his temper, Baudoin swore like a trooper, and turned as red as a turkey-cock.
Hildegarde, the concierge’s wife, was two or three years older than her husband; she had once been pretty and sentimental; she was not very well preserved, and her inclination to sentiment having with age become diverted to brandy, Madame Baudoin had neglected herself considerably; there was a deplorable carelessness in her dress, which resulted in nothing ever being in place. Baudoin, who was always neat and decently dressed, often reproached his wife for her heedlessness in that respect, and as he had also discovered her unlucky fondness for liquor, he sometimes added to his reproaches lessons of an impressive sort, which made Hildegarde bellow loudly, and promise never to give way again to her miserable failing; but she never failed to forget that promise, whenever she thought that her husband would know nothing about it.
Moreover, Madame Baudoin was a genuine type of concierge: talkative, inquisitive, gossiping, scandal-loving, incautious, not evil-minded at bottom, but capable of setting the whole quarter at odds with remarks made without ill-intent. Her husband often scolded her for it; but “what’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh!”
At the jingling of the bell, and the somersault performed by her husband, Hildegarde, bewildered, and realizing that she had not time to replace the bottle of brandy in the cupboard, hastily put it on the floor between her feet, and then sat down, thus having her dear bottle in the place where the open air tradeswomen put their foot-warmers.
“Didn’t someone ring?” said Baudoin, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes, my dear, yes, someone certainly did!” replied his wife, without moving from her chair.
“Well, then, draw the cord, Hildegarde; you’re right near it.”
“You can draw it much easier yourself, my dear; you have only to put out your arm and lean forward a bit.”
“Look here, why won’t you pull the cord, when you’re right beside it? What sort of way is that to behave?”
“Why—why, you see I pulled it just now when the tenant of the first floor came in, so it’s your turn.”
“Ah! so this is a new idea you’ve got into your head! Madame is afraid that she will pull the cord oftener than I, who have just come in, all tired and out of breath after running about Paris all day! What a lazy hussy!”
“Mon Dieu! is it possible for a man to be as ugly as this to his wife! to be so unwilling to do anything for her! Ah! Monsieur Baudoin, how you have changed!”
While this little dialogue was taking place between the couple employed to take care of the house, the person who had rung remained at the door, which is rarely pleasing when one returns home at night. A second peal at the bell, much more violent than the first, announced that he was losing patience.
Baudoin decided to pull the cord, but as he did so he said to his wife:
“Ah! bigre! you shall pay for this, Hildegarde! by all that’s good! I promise you that.”
Hildegarde made no reply, but continued to sit over her bottle. Someone came in and closed the street door; and soon a man appeared at the concierge’s lodge, and said curtly:
“Give me my light.”
“Oh! yes, Monsieur Malberg; this minute, Monsieur Malberg.—Hildegarde, just take Monsieur Malberg’s candlestick from the cupboard by you, light it at our lamp, or rather light it with a match, for the chimney of our lamp is cracked and it might break in your hand.—You are just from the theatre, I suppose, Monsieur Malberg? They say that they are giving a fine play there just now; I don’t know which theatre, but no matter, it seems that it’s fine, all the same! You have been to see it, of course?”
“I have been where I chose to go, and it is none of your business,” replied the tenant, in a tone which did not invite further conversation. “Well! what about my light? Are you going to give it to me to-night? or do you intend to keep me waiting here as long as you did in the street?”
“What, Hildegarde, haven’t you lighted Monsieur Malberg’s light yet? Look here, what are you about? God forgive me, Monsieur Malberg, but I believe that my wife is getting deaf or idiotic; something’s the matter with her to-night; it isn’t possible—yes, she may have been tippling. You know her unlucky failing, which will lead her to perdition! and it isn’t for lack of my trying to correct it by every means that I can think of.”
Whereupon Hildegarde, who had her reasons for not stirring from her chair, made haste to reply:
“Oh, yes! the means you use are very nice! I advise you to boast of them; you ought to be ashamed of them! a man with an education, who has clerks under him, in an office, to raise his hand to his wife! Yes, Monsieur Malberg, I don’t blush to confess that Monsieur Baudoin has the baseness to strike me! that’s a nice thing to do, ain’t it?”
But the man to whom these questions were addressed, observing that no one thought of giving him his light, pushed open the door of the lodge, took his candlestick, lighted the candle with a piece of paper, and went upstairs without another word to the concierge and his wife, who continued their conversation.
“Well, Hildegarde, do you see what you’ve done? Here’s Monsieur Malberg had to light his candle himself! what will he think of us?”
“Oh! I don’t care what he thinks! he’s an agreeable man, that tenant! a fellow who never talks, who hardly answers when you speak to him, and always in a short, surly tone, as if he was always angry!”
“It is true that he seldom laughs; but still perhaps that’s his nature; there are people who enjoy being dismal. However, he’s a man who occupies an apartment at eleven hundred francs, and who pays on the dot, without having to be reminded that it is rent day, and who has very handsome furniture, and mirrors in every room, so that the proprietor has a very high regard for him.”
“Oh! I don’t say that he’s a vagabond! but why doesn’t he keep a maid, who’d come to our lodge in the evening and talk, as decent people always do, instead of that miserable blackamoor, that yellow negro, who doesn’t know how to do anything but wax his floor and polish his boots? as if you could call that a servant! He ought to hire me to do his housework; that’s my line!”
“You forget, Hildegarde, that the landlord doesn’t want you to do housework. Of course, if you went away while I am at my office, there wouldn’t be anybody but the cat to look after the lodge and answer questions!”
“A fine job this is, where the concierge’s wife isn’t allowed to do housework! That was my only ambition.”
“Oh, yes! the fact is that you were the cause of our being discharged from the lodge we had before this, because you did housework for the men on the fourth floor and drank all their liquor.”
“That isn’t true, it’s a slander!”
“Let’s not go back to that. I am mortified that Monsieur Malberg had to light his candle himself; it’s a stain upon our good name.”
“Well then, you ought to have lighted it for him, if you have that on your conscience!”
“Hold your tongue, Hildegarde; you’re very unreasonable to-night, you have something bad to say about everybody. You find fault because Monsieur Malberg has a yellow negro to work for him, and you don’t seem to know that that is very distinguished. Swell people always have colored servants in their employ.”
“It’s a miserable fashion. But still, if that miserable Pingo or Ponceau—I never know what his name is—was only agreeable.”
“Pongo!”
“Oh! what a dog of a name! Pongo! But he never talks, the blackamoor; or else he talks to himself, and says things that I don’t understand; I believe that he talks Morocco!”
“Come, Hildegarde, it’s almost twelve o’clock; go to bed, that’s the best thing you can do.”
“Everybody hasn’t come in.”
“Yes they have, everybody except little Georget, who lives up under the roof, with his mother.—By the way, how is the poor woman to-day?”
“Not very well; she’s had more fainting fits this afternoon, and I thought she was going to put out her gas.”
“And her son hasn’t come home, at midnight! that’s what I call a ne’er-do-well, a downright scamp! Hildegarde, heaven didn’t give us any children, and I give thanks for it in my heart; because they aren’t always honey for parents, and often absinthe rules the roost, as I see in the case of Mère Georget!”
“Absinthe—absinthe—I don’t hate that! it helps the digestion!”
“Oh! bless my soul! you don’t hate any liquid; but I know that absinthe is bad for the health; I’ve heard some of the clerks at the office talking about two talented actors who played at the theatre and who put an end to themselves with absinthe; without counting several others who are in a fair way to do the same thing!”
“Bah! that’s all nonsense!”
“Come, Hildegarde, go to bed; I will come in a little while; and if little Georget isn’t in at the quarter, I will leave him outside; I can’t waste my oil for anyone who never makes it up to me. Well, you don’t move; are you fastened to your chair to-night?”
“Go to bed first, Baudoin; I’ll sit up for the young man, and put the lodge in order.”
“You know very well that I am not in the habit of going to bed before you. I see your scheme: you will wait until I am asleep and then go to the cupboard to say a word or two to the bottle!”
“Oh! the idea of my going to the cupboard! It’s much more likely to be you, for you like brandy too.”
“I like it reasonably, like a man with some self-respect, who doesn’t choose to make a brute of himself.—Hildegarde, go to bed.”
“I don’t feel sleepy.”
“Hildegarde, we are going to have trouble! Will you go to bed at once?”
“You pester me——”
“Hildegarde, I shall be compelled to resort to severe means. Why, you certainly are glued to your chair; this isn’t natural, I suspect some trick. Ah! I see! I’ll bet that the bottle isn’t in the cupboard.”
And Baudoin rose to go to the cupboard, but as his wife was sitting in front of it and did not move, he pushed her roughly aside, whereupon she reeled, and almost instantly uttered a cry of distress so heartrending that her husband feared that he had hurt her. But it was not Hildegarde who was hurt, it was the bottle under her skirts, which she had involuntarily upset, and which had broken, overflowing the lodge with all the liquor which it contained.
“I say! what’s all this?” cried Baudoin, when he found a stream flowing between his feet; but soon the odor which spread through the room left him in no doubt as to the identity of the liquid.
“It is brandy; she had the bottle under her skirt; what a vile trick!”
“Yes, and you made me break it! that’s the worst of it, you brute! Such splendid brandy!”
“Hildegarde, you persist in your debauchery; I am going to give you a taste of the broomstick.”
“Touch me if you dare! I’ll call the watch! I’ll make a disturbance in the house!”
Meanwhile Baudoin, who was in the habit of keeping his promises, had gone to fetch the broomstick. At that moment, the bell at the street door rang, and this time the woman made haste to open, hoping that it was somebody who would protect her.
It was Georget, the young messenger of the flower market, who entered the house, and in another instant the porter’s lodge, just as Baudoin raised his broomstick over the head of his wife, who ran behind the young man, crying:
“Oh! monsieur, save an unfortunate woman, whose husband is trying to murder her!”
“Sapristi! how strong it smells of brandy here!” said Georget, sniffing; then, leaping upon the broomstick which the concierge held, he seized it with both hands. But Baudoin held on, he would not let go, and a struggle began between him and the young messenger, remarkably like the battles around the flag, which we see in the war plays at the boulevard theatres; only in this case the flag was a broomstick and the combatants were not in uniform.
The struggle continued for some time, on nearly even terms; Baudoin was stronger and little Georget more active. The concierge’s wife paid no heed to the contestants; she had taken a small sponge, and was using it to soak up the brandy from the floor; and when it was well saturated, she put it to her lips.
Suddenly the broomstick broke, each of the contestants fell backward, and the battle was at an end. Finding himself then on a level with Madame Baudoin, who was kneeling on the floor with her body bent forward, still soaking and sucking her sponge, Georget could not restrain a burst of laughter; and the concierge, who was inclined at first to belabor his wife with what remained of his broomstick, suddenly decided to lie down on the floor, and to lap up the brandy with his tongue as thirsty dogs lap up the water in the gutter.
VI
THE GENTLEMAN OF THE THIRD FLOOR
Georget left Monsieur and Madame Baudoin fighting over the remains of the brandy with sponge and tongue, and lighted one of the small, thin candles which are rolled up like small rockets and which are sold for one or two sous at the grocer’s. Then running quickly up six flights of stairs, he reached a small door in which the key had been left; poor people are not suspicious, especially as they have nothing which is worth the trouble of stealing.
The young messenger walked through a small room, which received no light except through a little round window, in which room was a cot bed supplied with a very thin mattress and with an old window curtain which served as bedclothes. This was Georget’s bedroom; but he did not stop there. Opening the door at the end of the room, and trying to make no noise, he entered another much larger one, where there was a little window. This room, although the walls sloped, was large enough to contain a bed surrounded by white curtains, an old mahogany bureau, a white wood table, a small sideboard, several chairs, and on the mantel a tiny mirror surrounded by a branch of consecrated boxwood. All this was more than modest, but it was neat and clean; it indicated not destitution, but poverty.
Georget was walking very softly, concealing his light with his right hand, when he heard a feeble voice from the bed:
“Is that you, Georget?”
“Yes, mother, it’s I. So you’re not asleep?”
“No, I haven’t been able to go to sleep, I don’t know why.”
“It must be because you are sicker; and you have not been well for several days, although you didn’t admit it to me.”
“It’s nothing, just the lumbago, it will soon be gone. If you would just give me something to drink, my dear, for I am very thirsty.”
“Yes, mother, in a minute. Wait until I light your candle and put out this tallow thing of mine which smells worse than thirty-six lamps.”
After lighting a bit of candle stuck in a bottle, Georget approached his mother’s bed.
“Come, now you must tell me where your medicine is. But gracious heaven, how red your face is, mother! and black circles round your eyes! Are you worse?”
“Why, no, it is the heat of the bed that does that.”
“Give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse. Oh! how hot your hand is! You are feverish, and very feverish too, I am sure.”
“Nonsense, as if you knew anything about it.”
“Oh! yes I do; you must have pain somewhere.”
“No, I am not in pain.”
“The first thing in the morning I’ll fetch a doctor.”
“I don’t want you to; what’s the use of a doctor, just because one has a little fever; it will go away all right without him!”
“Where is your drink?”
“I thought I wouldn’t make any; I prefer water, I like it better.”
“Water, when one is feverish! Why, you didn’t do right! If I did such a thing, you’d scold me and say that I acted like a child, and you would be right. However, tell me where the sugar is; where do you keep the sugar, mother?”
“Sugar! I don’t want any; it nauseates me; I prefer clear water.”
“Water without sugar, when one is as burning hot as you are! I never heard of such a thing! You can’t mean it! Do you want to kill yourself? I am going to give you some sweetened water, but I must heat it; it’s better so.”
“Oh, no! no!”
“I say yes; I will take care of you better than you do yourself. Come, where is the sugar? where is the coal?”
And Georget ran all about the room, fumbling over all the furniture, opening all the closets, looking in every corner, but he found nothing. Thereupon a bright light broke upon his mind. He stopped in the middle of the room, threw his cap on the floor, and cried in a tone of deep distress:
“Ah! I understand everything now! You didn’t make yourself any drink, because you had no coal nor charcoal! You don’t want any sugar, because you haven’t a single particle of it here! Yes, yes, that is it! You are out of everything! You haven’t any money either, I am sure! and I, instead of trying to earn some, so that you might have what you need, why, I do nothing at all! I pass my day loafing, and at night I go to the theatre with Patatras, who absolutely insisted on treating me. I go about enjoying myself when my mother is sick, and I come home without a sou, without a single piece of money; and I haven’t anything to buy her what might cure her! Ah! I am a wicked son, a good-for-nothing! Forgive me, mother, forgive me; I won’t do so any more! I will work, I swear to you that I will work now!”
And the young fellow fell on his knees beside his mother’s bed; and the poor mother forgot her suffering, and tried only to comfort her son.
“What are you talking about, Georget? You, a good-for-nothing! Why, you don’t mean that, my boy! Have I ever complained of your conduct?”
“Oh! I know very well that you never complain; you are too good!”
“You have been amusing yourself a little to-day; well, my boy, there’s no harm in that; you must enjoy yourself while you’re young. Your friend Chicotin took you to the theatre; the theatre is a decent amusement; it is much better than going to the wine shop; you don’t make evil acquaintances there, or destroy your health with unhealthy stuff that they give you for wine. You haven’t earned anything to-day—that is too bad, but to-morrow you will work, and you will be happier!”
“To-morrow! to-morrow! but you have had nothing to drink this evening; you haven’t any sugar; and what will you take to quench your thirst to-night? cold water, I suppose?”
“I am going to try to sleep; when one is asleep, one doesn’t need to drink.”
“But when you wake in the morning, what shall I give you? for you have no money here, nothing at all; isn’t that so, mother?”
“Dear me, yes, my dear; for unfortunately I haven’t been able to work for a week; my sight has been all blurred!”
“Oh! you work too much, when you ought to rest.”
“Why so, Georget? I am not old enough yet to give up work, I am only fifty-four! If a body was good for nothing at that age, it would be a great pity!”
“I know that you’re not old, but still your health isn’t very good, and then you didn’t use to need to work for your living.”
“Oh! my dear, we must never say such things as that, and sigh over the past! If one has been happy, so much the better; if one is so no longer, so much the worse; regrets don’t help and only make our position worse!”
“All this doesn’t give you any nice, hot, sweet drink, and that is what you must have!”
“Don’t despair, we are not altogether without resources. You know that I have—your father’s watch; and if it is absolutely necessary, why——”
“What’s that you say! my father’s watch, which you think so much of! the only thing of his that you have! part with that? No, I won’t have it. Wait—suppose I should go and stand in front of some theatre?”
“What an idea! They are all over, all closed at this time of night.”
“Never mind; in front of a restaurant, I may still get something to do.”
“I don’t want you to go out; it’s too late.”
“Well then, in the house; pardi! sugar and coal—people lend each other such things as that. Don’t be impatient, mother, I will come right back.”
“No, Georget, I don’t want you to ask the neighbors; don’t, I beg you!”
But Georget was not listening to his mother; he had already relighted his tallow-dip and hurried from the room. When he reached the landing, the young man stopped, for he was uncertain to whom he should apply for the loan which he wished to obtain; but he did not hesitate long. He ran down the stairs three or four at a time, and did not stop until he reached the ground floor and knocked at the concierge’s lodge, saying to himself:
“Baudoin and his wife are not unkind; they dispute together, and fight sometimes, but they haven’t bad hearts; they won’t refuse me. Besides, it is only a loan, I will return it all.”
But Georget forgot that he had left the concierge and his wife engaged in an occupation which was likely to plunge them into a profound slumber ere long. In fact, after sucking and lapping brandy for some time, the husband and wife had felt such an intense longing to sleep, that they had hardly strength enough to reach their bed; and as the sleep caused by intoxication is never light, Monsieur and Madame Baudoin did not hear the knocking at their door; one might have fired a cannon under their noses, and they would simply have said: “God bless you!”
Weary of knocking to no purpose, Georget walked away from the lodge, murmuring:
“Those concierges are regular beer kegs; I shall never succeed in waking them, and I might as well give it up. Let me see, where can I apply? on the first floor? The whole floor is occupied by a family of English people, who hardly understand what you say to them and who don’t look very pleasant; I should not be well received there, they would not be able to understand what I said. On the second floor is a very pretty, very stylish lady, who receives fine gentlemen, but who refuses to open her door when she has company; her maid told me so the other day,—those are her orders. On the third,—ah! that is the gentleman that they call the Bear in the house, because he never talks with anybody, never receives any visitors, and hardly answers when you speak to him. Much use there would be in trying to borrow sugar and charcoal of that man! and still, if I thought that his black man would open the door;—but no, Pongo sleeps so sound that he never hears his master come home. So it would be the gentleman himself who would open the door, and he would shut it in my face without answering me. I don’t even dare to try!—On the fourth, on one side is an old woman, so timid that she will never open her door after dusk; on the other, a student; but he has gone into the country. And at the top, opposite us, no one; the room is to let. Mon Dieu! whom shall I apply to then, if among all these people I can see no hope of help for my poor mother, who has a high fever and no cooling draft to lessen her suffering? Ah! Chicotin was quite right to say that I am a fool to be in love, that I am too young. Mamzelle Violette makes me forget my mother, my duty, my work. To think that I have done nothing to-day! that I came home without a sou when I knew that my mother was sick! Oh, I am a miserable, heartless villain! I shall never forgive myself!”
As he said this, Georget went slowly upstairs, stopping frequently because he was weeping; and he had stopped again, and rested his head against the wall, to sob at his ease, when a door opened within two steps of him.
He was then on the landing of the third floor, and it was Monsieur Malberg who stood before him. When he saw the young messenger, who still had the look of a mere boy, beating his head against the wall, and giving free vent to his sobs, the gentleman who was called the Bear, and who in fact had a rather stern expression and a rather rough voice, walked toward Georget and asked:
“What are you doing here?”
“Well! monsieur, you see, I am crying, I am unhappy.”
“And why are you crying?”
“Because my mother is sick, and because she has nothing that might help her; because I didn’t work to-day, and came home to the house without a sou; because I am a heartless wretch, and I deserve to be beaten!”
“Well, do you think that if you beat your head against the wall that that will help your mother?”
“Oh! no, monsieur! but when a fellow doesn’t know which way to turn! I went down and knocked at the concierge’s door; I wanted to borrow a little sugar and some charcoal of them; but they didn’t answer; I suppose they sleep too sound!”
“So you live in the house, do you?”
“Yes, monsieur, at the top, under the eaves; I live there with my mother, who is the widow of my father, Pierre Brunoy, who was a soldier, a non-commissioned officer, who left the service on account of a wound. Oh! he was a fine man, was my father! He was a draughts-man, he had lots of talent, and he used to make designs for ladies who embroider; we were happy then; but he died. My mother undertook to keep a little smallwares shop, to earn enough to educate me; but she didn’t succeed, for no one paid her. Then, as she works very well on linen, she began to work for people, and I, knowing that I ought to help mother, whose health isn’t very good, and who has weak eyes, I said to myself: ‘I will be a messenger, for I could never find a place, although I can read and write and figure; or else I should have to work without pay for a long while and I must earn money right away to help mother.’—So I started in as a messenger; for there isn’t any foolish trade, so I was told;—and—that’s all, monsieur.”
The gentleman of the third floor listened attentively to Georget, and when he had finished, said to him:
“Come with me.”
“Where, monsieur?”
“Into my room, of course.”
“What for, monsieur?”
“You will see; come.”
The youth placed his tallow-dip on the floor, and followed the gentleman; his heart was still heavy, for he didn’t understand how the person who occupied the handsome apartment on the third floor could need his services so late. Monsieur Malberg passed through a reception room very carefully polished, and into a beautiful dining-room. There he stopped, opened a large sideboard, took out a loaf of sugar, which was hardly touched, and placed it in Georget’s hand, saying:
“Take this!”
The poor boy looked at him with an almost dazed expression, and murmured:
“What is this, monsieur?”
“Don’t you see that it is sugar?”
“Sugar, oh, yes! but this great loaf,—who’s all this for?”
“For your mother, of course! Didn’t you tell me that she hadn’t any and that she was sick?”
“Oh! is it possible, monsieur, that you are so kind as—but this is too much, monsieur, too much.”
“Hush, and come with me.”
This time Monsieur Malberg went into his kitchen, where Georget followed him, holding the loaf of sugar in his arms. The gentleman pointed to a large box without a cover, which stood under the stove, saying:
“Take that box; there’s charcoal in it.”
“Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! How can I thank you for——”
“It isn’t worth while, I don’t like thanks; take this box, I say.”
“Yes, monsieur, but be sure—I will return all this; pray believe me. Oh! I will work to pay my debt.”
“Very well, very well! By the way, wait; I have some linden leaves here, and some mallow; perhaps they will be good for your mother, and you haven’t any in your room, I suppose?”
“No, I think not, monsieur.”
“Well, I’ll give you some then; come.”
Monsieur Malberg returned to his dining-room. Georget still followed him, holding under one arm the loaf of sugar, and under the other the box filled with charcoal. The gentleman opened the drawer of a small piece of furniture, took out several paper bags, looked to see what they contained, put two of them aside, and was about to give them to Georget, when he stopped as if a sudden thought had struck him, and left the dining-room, saying:
“I will return in a moment; what I want isn’t there; wait here.”
The young messenger was careful not to stir; he was so pleased that he wondered whether he was not the play-thing of a dream; but he for whom he was waiting soon returned, bringing several small packages of herbs, saying:
“Here are some things which may be good for your mother,—linden, orange leaves, mallow and violet; take them all, or rather let me put them in your pocket, for you have no hand free.”
“Oh, monsieur! excuse me for the trouble I put you to. Mon Dieu! you are too kind! I will pay you for this, monsieur; for we are not beggars, we don’t ask alms, and I should be sorry for you to have that idea of us.”
“Very good! Your mother is sick and may need you; don’t leave her alone any longer.”
“Yes, monsieur, you are right; my poor mother, she will be so happy, so—so—Thanks, monsieur, oh, thanks a thousand times! Remember that I am always here day and night, at your service.”
“I will remember; but go.”
And the gentleman pushed Georget before him, so that he soon found himself on the landing once more. The door of the apartment closed, and he reascended the staircase as quickly as he could, with his box of charcoal, his loaf of sugar, and his tallow-dip still lighted.
At last he reached his room; this time he was not afraid of making a noise when he went in; he was too happy not to wish to tell his mother about it; but she was not asleep, and she gazed in amazement at her son when he danced into the room, and placed the loaf of sugar on her bed, crying:
“There, mother; you shall not drink plain cold water any more! Here is sugar, here is charcoal, and in my pocket I have half a dozen herbs in leaves. Ah! what luck! you will be cured right away! I can nurse you nicely now.”
“What does this mean, my dear? where did you get all these things? You hadn’t a sou just now. Explain yourself, Georget, I insist.”
“Why, yes, yes, never fear, I am going to tell you the whole story; but let me light the stove first, and then, while I blow my charcoal, I will tell you how Providence came to our assistance. Where is the stove? Ah! there it is. This will light very quickly, I know, although the bellows isn’t any too good.”
“Did you get all these things in the house, my son?”
“Yes, mother; you see, first of all, I went down to borrow from the concierge, Monsieur Baudoin; but it wasn’t any use for me to knock at their door, I couldn’t wake them, they’re worse than deaf people. So then I was coming up again in very low spirits, indeed, I believe I was crying, when the door on the third landing opened, and the gentleman who lives there came out to me. Oh! this thing proves, mother, that people very often say foolish things, or that it’s very wrong to judge a person by his appearance. For that gentleman that they call the Bear, that gentleman that never speaks to anybody, and that everybody makes stupid jokes about, why, he took me into his room, and gave me all these things for you, because I told him that you were sick; and he didn’t even let me thank him!—Ah! you miserable charcoal! you’ve got to burn! Now I am going to put some water over the fire.”
“But, my dear, this is an enormous loaf of sugar, and it is almost whole; you ought not to have borrowed so much as this.”
“As if that gentleman would listen to me! He says: ‘Take this!’ and if you try to remonstrate, he shouts: ‘Hold your tongue!’ and it’s impossible to prevent him from doing what he wants to.—Ah! my fire is going at last!”
“But this Monsieur Malberg—for the gentleman of the third floor is named Malberg—I have never met him; what sort of looking man is he, Georget? You must have had a good look at him, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes! mother; why, he’s a man neither young nor old. At first sight, I am sure that you would take him to be older than he really is, because when a person never laughs, that makes him look older. He may be somewhat over fifty years old; his face is not ugly, not by any means, but his features have a sort of stern expression; his eyes are always gloomy and melancholy, and there are great wrinkles on his brow; his eyebrows are heavy, and his hair must have been black, but it’s a little gray now. When he fixes his great brown eyes on you, it frightens you; and yet I got used to them, for his expression is neither unkind nor contemptuous; it’s—I don’t know just how to describe it—it’s sort of compassionate, or sorrowful; and his voice, which sounds harsh at first, is much less so when he’s talked to you for some time. You see, mother, that gentleman isn’t like most people; oh, no! he makes you respect him, and it comes natural to obey him, and you don’t dare to say anything.”
“Really, my dear, you make me long to know this gentleman; when I am able to go out, I shall go to thank him. And did you tell him——”
“Just how we are placed, what we used to be, and what father did. Yes, I told him everything. Did I do wrong?”
“No, my boy, we have done nothing which we need to be ashamed of or to conceal.”
“Ah! my water is boiling; now I am going to make you some herb tea, mother; which would you rather have?”
“Why, tell me first what you have in your pocket.”
“Wait and I’ll show you; I have a whole lot of bundles! Here, see what this is.”
“Violet.”
“And this?”
“Linden leaves.”
“And—and—well! here’s something else now!”
“What’s the matter, Georget? Have you lost something?”
“Lost! oh, no! not by any means, mother! What I have just found in my pocket certainly wasn’t there before! I am sure of that.”
“Why, what have you found in your pocket?”
“Here, look, mother!”
And the young messenger tossed upon the good woman’s bed four five-franc pieces.
“Twenty francs, Georget! twenty francs! What does this mean? where did you get all that money, my son?”
“I haven’t any idea, mother; and I am very sure that I didn’t have it when I came home. I didn’t have a sou.”
“But this money didn’t get into your pocket of itself. Answer me, Georget, and above all, don’t lie.”
“Mon Dieu! how you say that, mother! Do you suppose that I am capable of having stolen this money from someone, I should like to know?”
“No, my dear, I do not suppose that my son, that the child of my honest Brunoy, would ever do a wicked action; but I have always carefully preserved your father’s watch, and some time, without my knowledge, to help me, you might have——”
“Pawned papa’s watch! Oh! never! I’d rather pawn myself! but wait, mother; I remember now; yes, that must have been it.”
“What? tell me.”
“That gentleman on the third floor, when I had the loaf of sugar and the box of charcoal in my arms, insisted on putting all these little bundles of dried leaves in my pocket himself; and that’s the way he stuffed these five-franc pieces into my pocket! Oh! I am sure of it now! for he went into his bedroom alone, to get the money, no doubt. It was him, mother, it was him; indeed, who else could have given me all this?”
“You are right, Georget, it can’t have been anybody else; people who like to do good, think of everything, and it seems that he is very kind, this Bear!”
“Yes, indeed, he is kind, but I shall not keep his money. I will work to-morrow, and earn some; and he has put us under enough obligation by lending us sugar and charcoal. Mother, we mustn’t keep these twenty francs that he slipped into my pocket so slyly, so that I could not thank him, must we? But still, it was very nice of him, all the same; he isn’t like other people, that gentleman! I’ll bet that when he tosses a piece of money to a poor man, he doesn’t try to make it ring on the sidewalk when it falls.”
“No, my dear, we mustn’t keep the twenty francs, for it is quite a large sum, and it would be too hard to repay it.”
“I am going to take it back to the gentleman right away.”
“Oh! it must be quite late now; Monsieur Malberg has gone to bed, no doubt, and is probably asleep; if you wake him up, he won’t like it. Wait till morning, and when he’s up, you can take the money back to him, and thank him again for both of us.”
“After all, you are right, mother; it will be better for me to let the gentleman sleep, who has helped me to cure you. I will go to-morrow morning, when his negro is up.—But the water is still boiling; give me what I need for your tea.”
The invalid chose one of the herbs. Georget soon made the tea and carried his mother a cup smoking hot and well sweetened; and when she had drunk it, he filled the cup again and placed it on the table by the bed.
“If you are thirsty again in the night,” he said, “you must drink this; it will be all ready; now try to go to sleep.”
“Yes, my dear, but it seems to me that I feel better already.”
“Well! mother; it is always like that; when a person has all that he needs to get well, then the disease must go.”
“Oh! not always, my boy, for in that case rich people would never be sick; but the thing that relieves one is contentment, happiness. It requires so little to make poor people happy! and what has happened to us this evening is real good fortune.”
“Oh, yes! it is a kind of good fortune that the rich do not know, but that they can confer on others; and that must be a great pleasure too.—Good-night, mother; if you need anything, call me.”
VII
A DIFFICULT ERRAND
The next day, before six o’clock, Georget was up and dressed; he went first to inquire concerning his mother’s health; the invalid had slept, and felt better, although she was still too weak to rise. She smiled as she said:
“Up already, my dear?”
“I must earn a lot of money to-day, mother, in order to bring you all that you need.”
“But I need nothing, as I have the material for making herb tea.”
“Oh! nobody knows! if you get better, perhaps a little beef soup won’t be a bad thing for you. When a fellow is out on the boulevard early, he is more apt to find work. There are maids who have bundles to send, people who have to go into the country and are looking for a cab——”
“Poor Georget! what a miserable trade yours is! Knowing how to write and figure as you do, you ought to have found a place in some office, or a clerkship in some shop.”
“Oh, yes! and wait a year or two before earning any kind of a salary! Don’t think about that any more, mother; I am very happy as I am! A clerk! shut up all day in an office! oh! how sick I should get of that! then I should never see her!”
“Who is it that you’d never see, my child?”
Georget blushed, but made haste to reply:
“I mean that I shouldn’t see you during the day, whenever I wanted to. By the way, mother, I must go to see the gentleman on the third floor, the gentleman who is so kind, although he doesn’t show it. I am going to return his twenty francs.”
“Isn’t it a little too early? He isn’t up yet, probably.”
“Oh! I am very sure that he gets up early; he isn’t one of the kind to coddle himself. Anyway, I’ll ask his valet, that mulatto who’s such a strange creature, they say.”
“Go, my dear, and thank the gentleman from me, until I can do it myself.”
Georget cast a glance at the mirror to make sure that nothing was lacking in his costume. When a man is in love, he becomes particular about his looks, and Georget would have been very glad to please the pretty flower girl of the Château d’Eau, who seemed to look upon him as a child; that distressed the poor boy, he was sorry that he was not at least twenty years old, because he thought that then she would pay more attention to him. For we are never content with the passage of time; when we are young, we think that it doesn’t move fast enough; later, we complain because it moves too fast. And yet we know that the wisest course is to take it as it comes; probably we are not often wise, as we are always growling about it.
Georget went down to the third floor, and rang softly at Monsieur Malberg’s door; a very dark mulatto, whose hair age had not yet turned white, and who spoke French very well for a colored man, and very ill for a Parisian, opened the door and recognized the young messenger whom he had met sometimes on the stairs.
“Hullo! it’s Monsieur Georget. Morning, Monsieur Georget! What you come here for so early?”
“Monsieur Pongo, I would like to speak to your master, Monsieur Malberg.”
“Oh! master not up yet, he still sleep; I get up sooner, to tidy the room, rub floor here in the morning without waking master.”
“If he is still asleep, I will wait.”
“Yes, you sit down on a nice little chair, like this.”
“Thanks, Monsieur Pongo; I hope I am not in your way; go on with your work.”
“Yes, yes, then I go very soft and see if monsieur still sleep.”
The mulatto went into another room. Georget sat down and waited. After a few moments he heard voices in the next room and supposed that Monsieur Malberg was awake. But still he was left alone, nobody came, and Georget, beginning to be impatient, coughed, walked about the room and stole softly to the door, which was ajar. He was surprised to find that the mulatto was alone, but that as he did his work, he kept up a steady conversation with all the furniture and other objects in the study, which to him were people to whom he gave names, according to the custom of the people of his country.
“You stay there, Broubrou!” said Pongo to a tall Voltaire easy-chair. “You all right, you satisfied, all brushed, all cleaned, all ready for master to use, unless he take Babo, the little horsehair chair. Oh! Babo, you’d be mighty pleased if master took you instead of Madame Broubrou! she take up much more room.—There! now you all cleaned, well rubbed, good ‘nough to eat.—But I forget Zima; where you hide yourself, Zima? oh! no good for you to hide yourself, I know all right how to find you.”
And the mulatto looked in every corner of the room, and at last succeeded in finding a small bamboo cane with a gilt head. It was that cane to which Pongo had given the name of Zima. He took it up and shook it impatiently, muttering:
“Ah! Mamzelle Zima, you try to make fun of Pongo and keep out of sight a long time. Suppose me cross and not rub you head to make you shine, how you like that, eh, Mamzelle Zima?”
At this point, the scene between the mulatto and the cane was interrupted by shouts of laughter. They came from Georget, who, not being used to the customs of Africa, had been unable to restrain longer the desire to laugh, caused by the faithful Pongo’s monologue. He turned when he heard the laughter, and seeing the youth, began to laugh too, and, cane in hand, to take several steps of a strange dance which recalled the famous dance of the Cocos, performed in all the melodramas in which negroes are introduced.
A ring at the bell interrupted this extemporaneous ballet; Pongo dropped Mademoiselle Zima, and left the study, saying:
“That’s master, he ring for me; he awake, I go tell him that you waiting.”
A few moments later the mulatto returned, and ushered Georget into Monsieur Malberg’s bedroom; that gentleman was enveloped in an ample dressing-gown and held a newspaper, which he seemed to be reading.
He glanced at Georget, who remained bashfully in the doorway of the room, twisting his cap about in his hands.
“It’s you, is it, young man? What do you want of me so early in the morning? Is your mother sicker?”
“Oh, no! thanks to heaven and to you, monsieur! But I have come because I found this twenty francs in the pocket in which monsieur was kind enough to put some herbs for me to make my mother some tea. It was another kindness on monsieur’s part, no doubt, but he is too kind; we must not keep this money, for it would take us too long to return it; and so I have brought the twenty francs back.”
The gentleman in the dressing-gown resumed the perusal of his newspaper, as he answered in a crabbed tone:
“I don’t know what you mean; the money is yours, if it was in your pocket; keep it and let me alone.”
“But, monsieur, I am very sure that that twenty francs isn’t mine, as I didn’t own a sou to buy sugar, and that was why I was crying on the landing.”
“Well! what then? how does that concern me?”
“Why, monsieur, as nobody else but you put anything in my pocket, it must have been you who put these five-franc pieces there.”
“You are dreaming!”
“Oh, no!”
“It wasn’t I!”
“I am sure that it was!”
“Corbleu! you tire me! Well, suppose it was? If I chose to put those five-franc pieces in your pocket, am I not at liberty to put my money where I choose? Do you propose to prevent me from helping you, when I have too much money, and know that you haven’t enough? You are very proud, it seems, master messenger?”
“Oh! it isn’t that, monsieur; but you have already overwhelmed us with your kindness; it would be wrong to show our appreciation of it by accepting what we don’t need.”
“You lie! you do need money, for last night you were without a sou, and I don’t suppose that you have earned any during the night.”
“But, monsieur, my mother has all she needs now, and I am going to earn some money to-day.”
“Oho! you are very confident, aren’t you? How do you know that you will find work to-day, that it will be a good day for you?”
“Why! monsieur, it very seldom happens that a whole day passes without someone employing us; a man would have to be very unlucky to have that happen.”
“And you think that you are in no danger of such bad luck? Well, tell me how you expect to earn money for your mother?”
“By doing errands, monsieur, as that is my business.”
“And how much do you get for an errand usually?”
“Why, that depends, monsieur, on how far I have to go; and then some people are more generous than others.”
“But about how much?”
“Twelve sous, fifteen sous, sometimes twenty sous; but that’s not often, unless we carry bundles.”
“And you take without a murmur whatever anyone chooses to give you?”
“To be sure, monsieur, as it’s the pay for our work.”
“Well, Monsieur Georget, I take you for my messenger from to-day; and it’s my pleasure to pay you two francs for every errand that you do for me.”
“Oh! that is too much, monsieur; no one ever pays as much as that.”
“If it suits me to pay that price, do you propose to prevent me from being more generous than other people?—You understand then, the twenty francs that you have received is a payment in advance on account of the errands you may do for me.”
“Yes, monsieur; then it’s for ten errands.”
“Exactly, for ten errands.”
“Confound it! now it’s the sugar! well, call it one errand more.”
“Monsieur is mistaken; it was at least nine pounds of sugar, and that makes—that makes—I don’t know just the price of sugar.”
“Nor I; say no more about it, and don’t bother me with all these trifles!”
“And the charcoal, monsieur?”
“This little fellow has evidently made a vow to drive me mad! Call it as many errands as you choose, and let me alone.”
“I will call it fifteen, monsieur, but I am very sorry that I have offended monsieur, who is so very kind, and I will go, monsieur, I will go!”
And Georget had already reached the door, when Monsieur Malberg called him back.
“Listen, my boy, as you seem in such a hurry to pay your debt to me, I will employ you at once.”
“Oh! so much the better, monsieur, so much the better!”
“Listen: there is somewhere or other in the world a person whom I lost sight of almost—almost nineteen years ago, and whom I am very desirous to find. At that time, the gentleman in question, for it is a gentleman that I am talking about, was some thirty-three or thirty-four years of age; he was tall, with a good figure, and was rather a handsome man. Moreover, he was a dandy, a man of fashion, and always dressed with much elegance; but as that was nineteen years ago, his appearance may have changed greatly! However, the man’s name is Monsieur de Roncherolle.”
“Very good, monsieur; and where did this handsome Monsieur de—de——”
“Roncherolle.”
“Roncherolle live? Oh! I shall not forget the name again.”
“He lived—but what good will it do you to know where he lived then, as at that time he suddenly left his lodgings in Paris, and left France, I imagine?”
“Still, he might have returned to his lodgings since.”
“Do you suppose that I haven’t been there a hundred times to inquire? No, he has never come back to the place where he used to live; but he did come back to Paris ten years ago, I am certain of that; but I was travelling then, and we never met. When I returned, he had gone away again; but, if I can believe certain reports, certain indications, he returned to Paris some time ago, and is living—in what quarter of the city? I have no idea. You see that the errand that I give you is a difficult one. For a very long time, I, myself, have been looking for that gentleman, but have failed to find him. If you succeed in discovering him, why, then I shall look upon myself as your debtor, and shall find a way to prove my gratitude to you!”
“Monsieur is jesting! he forgets that he has already paid me in advance for fifteen errands. But if only this Monsieur de Roncherolle has not changed his name—for in that case it would be very difficult to find him!”
“He will not have changed his name, for he belongs to an old family, and was very proud of it.”
“Did he do anything?”
“Nothing except use up his fortune as slowly as possible; and in all this time he must have gone to the end of it. However, he has probably retained his youthful habits: it is in the Chaussée d’Antin quarter, at the close of the Opéra, or of the Théâtre des Italiens, or in front of the best restaurants in Paris, that you are likely to find him, that chance may lead to his being called by name in your presence; for you do not know him, my poor boy, you have no description of him, and I can supply you with no other means of identifying him. So I fancy that I am giving you a commission impossible to execute!”
“Why so, monsieur? We hear so many things, we messengers! We go about in all sorts of places; we see the whole of Paris, and I will bet that I discover him, and in that case I will come instantly and report what I have learned.”
“That goes without saying.”
“But this commission will not prevent monsieur from giving me others; and if he has any letters to deliver——”
“Yes, yes; very well; now go.”
Georget left the bedroom; in the reception room he found Pongo in a serious dispute with Mademoiselle Zima, who had fallen twice to the floor and refused to rise without assistance. But Georget had no time to stop; he was in too great a hurry to tell his mother of his interview with the gentleman on the third floor. He lost no time in doing so, as soon as he was with the excellent woman; and he tossed the four five-franc pieces on the bed, exclaiming:
“They are really ours now, for that gentleman absolutely insisted on paying me in advance. So we are rich! You shall have everything you want; besides, I am going to earn money too. Good-by, mother; stay in bed, and take care of yourself.”
“Why, Georget, you go off in such a hurry; you must take one of these pieces at least; for you must live too.”
“No, mother, I don’t mean to touch that money; I mean to earn some first of all, and not eat my breakfast until I have worked.”
“Georget, that’s nonsense! Will you listen to me?”
But the young messenger was not listening; he was already at the foot of the stairs, and in front of the concierge’s lodge, where he found Madame Baudoin, alone, still gazing with an air of deep affliction at the marks of the brandy on the floor.
Georget’s first thought was to go to the Boulevard du Château d’Eau, where he was very certain to find Violette, for the flower girl was always there, even when it was not a market day. That was the advantage of her branch of business; hand bouquets are of all times, and there are some flowers in all seasons; which is very fortunate for lovers, who give them all the year around, and for the ladies, who would like to receive them all their lives.
VIII
THE BLUE PHIAL
Violette was seated behind her counter, making bouquets; she had a peculiar knack at blending colors, and giving its full effect to the simplest flower; her bouquets were tasteful, even when they were made up of modest flowers only; there was taste and charm in their arrangement; her art was apparent in every one. There are people who spoil whatever they touch, and others who can make something out of nothing.
Georget stopped a few feet away from the flower girl, and looked at her; but she was so busy over her bouquets that she did not see him, or at least did not seem to see him; so he decided to accost her.
“Good-morning, Mamzelle Violette.”
“Ah! is it you, Monsieur Georget?”
“Yes, it’s me; I have been here some time already, within a few feet of you, looking at you; but you didn’t deign to glance in my direction.”
“I didn’t deign! what does that mean? Do you think that I wouldn’t have said good-morning to you if I had seen you? Do you accuse me of being impolite now?”
“Oh, no! that isn’t what I mean, mamzelle; but sometimes, when one doesn’t care to talk with a person——”
“Are you going to begin that again, Georget? If I didn’t want to talk with you, what compels me to? I believe that I am my own mistress—alas! only too much my own mistress, as I don’t know my parents, and my last protectress, Mère Gazon, is lying yonder in the cemetery.”
“Well, now you are sad! I tell you, Mamzelle Violette, I was terribly sad last night too, for my mother was sick, and we were short of money.”
“Why didn’t you tell me so, Georget? I would have lent you money. You know very well that I have some, that I sell as much as I want to sell, and that it wouldn’t have troubled me at all.”
“Oh! upon my word! Borrow money of you, of you, mademoiselle! never!”
“What! never? what does this mean? Why not of me as well as of anybody else? Don’t you look upon me as your friend, or do you think me a hard-hearted creature, who would not take pleasure in obliging you?”
“Oh, no! no! it isn’t that! on the contrary I know very well that you are kind-hearted, that you love to do good; I have often seen you give money to unfortunate people! But it isn’t that; it is—mon Dieu! I don’t know how to express it; it is that I should be ashamed, I should blush to——”
“Well, well! you are getting all mixed up. I go straight to the point: Georget, do you want money? I have some here,—fifteen francs, twenty-five francs; it won’t embarrass me in the least.”
“Thanks, thanks, mamzelle; I am very grateful; but now it isn’t as it was last night; our position has changed, and we are in funds.”
“Is that really true? how does it happen that in so short a time—Georget, if you are deceiving me, it is very wrong; you have no money!”
To prove to the flower girl that he was not deceiving her, the messenger told her all that had happened since the evening before. Violette listened with the deepest interest, and her eyes filled with tears at the story of Monsieur Malberg’s kindness.
“Ah! that gentleman is a fine man!” cried the girl, almost leaping from her chair. “Suppose I should carry him a bouquet from you; would that please him?”
“Oh, no! On the contrary it would make him angry; he doesn’t like to be thanked; I am sure that he would be angry with me, if he knew that I had told you how kind he was.”
“That’s a pity; I would like to know him. Does he ever walk in this direction on market day?”
“No, I have never seen him here. He’s a man who doesn’t like society, nor noise; and when you don’t know him, why, he hasn’t an agreeable manner, I tell you!”
“But when one knows that he is kind and generous, then one ought not to be frightened by his manner.”
“No matter, I assure you, mamzelle, that in his presence no one dares to laugh.”
“Speaking of laughing, Monsieur Georget, I am going to scold you now.”
“Scold me?”
“Yes indeed. Oh! it’s of no use for you to assume your innocent air, I was not fooled by what happened yesterday afternoon. The idea of throwing my customers down! that’s very pretty, isn’t it? If you should do that often, I don’t think that I should sell so many bouquets.”
“But I didn’t throw anybody down!”
“No, not you, but that good-for-nothing Chicotin, who had planned the thing beforehand with you, because he knew that it would please you. Am I right? Come, Georget, answer me—didn’t you plan with Chicotin to throw that gentleman down?”
“Not that one, mamzelle, I haven’t any grudge against that one; it was the other one; Chicotin made a mistake.”
“One or the other, it was very wrong, monsieur, to run against my customers and overturn almost the whole of my shop.”
“But I tell you that Chicotin made a mistake.”
“And I tell you that if either you or he ever do that sort of thing again, that will be the end, and I will not speak to you any more.”
“Oh! never fear, mademoiselle, we shan’t do it again; not I, that is, for I can’t answer for others.”
“The others only do what you want.”
“Not speak to you any more? would that be possible? In the first place, I should keep on speaking to you!”
“But I wouldn’t answer you.”
“Then you would mean to kill me with grief?”
“Nonsense, people don’t die for that sort of thing!”
“Oh, you think so, because you don’t feel what I do, here in the bottom of my heart.”
“Georget, I thought that you intended to work hard to-day?”
“Ah! so I do, you are right.—By the way, mamzelle, you don’t happen to know a gentleman named De Roncherolle, do you?”
“No, I don’t know him.”
“True, this isn’t the quarter where I can expect to find him; I must go to Boulevard des Italiens, to the Chaussée d’Antin; that’s a pity, for it’s a long way from you.”
“Do you mean that you don’t expect to do errands except in the neighborhood of the Château d’Eau?”
“Why! of course I know that that isn’t possible; but I hate so to go away from you.”
“Really, Georget, you make me want to laugh; you are not old enough yet to be in love, it isn’t so very long since I used to see you playing marbles with urchins of your age!”
“Oh! upon my word! it’s a long, long time since I stopped playing marbles; why, that’s a game for children.”
“Oh! mon Dieu! don’t defend yourself so eagerly; there’s no harm in it. And let me tell you, Georget, you would do better to play now than to pass your time sighing and looking up at the sky, and always having a dismal expression; you are better looking when you laugh.”
“Do you think so, mamzelle? Well! it isn’t my fault, it isn’t by preference that I am dismal sometimes; but you always treat me like a child, and that annoys me. However, I am seventeen and a half, and I believe that I am almost as old as you.”
“No, I am more than eighteen; and at that age, a girl is much older than a boy and ought to have more common sense.”
“Oh! that’s all nonsense! on the contrary, there are men of seventeen who are already soldiers, and who have been in the army. Why, there’s a little drummer, who was lately stationed at the barracks in Faubourg du Temple, who was not more than eighteen years old, and he had been to Africa, where he passed three years, and was in battles with the Arabs.”
“Does that tempt you? Are you inclined to go as a drummer?”
“I don’t say that; still, if I didn’t have my mother, and if there wasn’t any hope of my being loved by the person I love, why, then——”
“Come, come! go and do your errand, Georget; you forget that that gentleman paid you in advance!”
“You are right, mamzelle; I stand here talking, and the time passes so quickly when I am talking with you! But I mean that you shall be satisfied with me; I won’t be sad any more, and I won’t loaf any more.”