"You rascal! I'll wager that the lady to whom you gave my letter paid
you, and paid you handsomely too; so that I really ought not to give you
anything."

"Monsieur is too shrewd," replied Jean Ficelle, with a half-smile;
"there's no way of being sharp with him."

"Off with you! keep your mouth shut, and I'll employ you again; when
you're paid at both ends, it seems to me that you ought to be
satisfied."

"He's a skinflint, all the same!" muttered the messenger, as he went
away.

Célestin returned to his friends.

"The reply is evidently satisfactory," said Mouillot, scrutinizing his
face. "His eyes have the proud gleam of a victor already. Is your
Dulcinea very pretty?"

"Oh! messieurs, it isn't what you imagine. It's important business."

"Are you going to marry?"

"No. It's some business on the Bourse. A little money to invest."

"Oho! if you're going to be a millionaire, then you can afford to lose
at bouillotte.--The champagne frappé, waiter. Now is the time!"

"Messieurs," said Dupétrain, with his elbows still on the table, "I was
about to tell you a very curious anecdote.--A young woman, whose
husband was travelling, desired to know whether, when he was away from
her----"

"Silence! No more stories! here comes the champagne!--Well, Albert, why
don't you drink? You are not in good spirits."

"Because my messenger doesn't come," replied the young dandy, with a
sigh which he extinguished in a glass of champagne.

"Nor mine, either," said Tobie; "but I don't care! he'll come in time.
Meanwhile, let us drink and laugh and sing! Champagne till we drop! They
treat you mighty well here."

"Yes, you seem to be getting along very well," said the artist, with a
smile.

"Spare yourself, Pigeonnier, my boy; or else you'll make a fiasco, in
spite of your letter of recommendation."

"I! why I could drink champagne all day without getting drunk; I am so
used to it!"

Again the waiter appeared, and said:

"There's a messenger for Monsieur Albert Vermoncey."

"Ah! it's for me this time!" exclaimed the young man, springing to his
feet. "I am coming! I am coming!"

In a second he had left the room and joined Sans-Cravate, who came to
meet him, holding three letters in one hand and a single one in the
other, and who said, almost without stopping for breath:

"I did just what monsieur told me: first, to the lady's house on Rue
Neuve-Vivienne. Not in; I left the letter. Then to monsieur's house, Rue
Caumartin. The concierge gave me these three letters. They smell good;
you'd think you had your nose on Bastringuette's tray. And then I went
back just now to Rue Neuve-Vivienne, and they gave me this letter for
monsieur. That smells good, too."

"A letter from her! Oh! give it to me, give it to me!"

"Here's all of them; first, the three the concierge gave me."

And Sans-Cravate handed Albert the letters he held in his left hand. But
the young man crumpled them up together and thrust them into his pocket;
then, hurriedly breaking the seal of the other one, which the messenger
had in his right hand, he stepped aside to read it unobserved, while
Sans-Cravate whistled a _cachucha_ between his teeth.

Albert had no sooner made himself acquainted with the contents of Madame
Baldimer's reply to his letter, than his face assumed an expression of
the most intense pleasure; he felt in his pocket and took out two
five-franc pieces, which he put in Sans-Cravate's hand, saying:

"Here, Sans-Cravate; I am happy, and I want you to be happy, too."

"Ah! thanks, bourgeois. _Crédié!_ it's a pleasure to work for you;
you're very free with your cash. I am always at your service--day or
night--no matter what time; whenever you need me, I'll be ready. And if
you should be short of the needful, I'd work for you all the same;
because, you see, when I once get attached to people, it isn't just
selfishness that makes me work for them--it's the heart--it's----"

"All right, my good fellow, thanks! Some day, perhaps, I shall put your
zeal to the proof. Go and enjoy yourself. I must return to my friends."

"Oh! yes, we are going to have rather a choice little spree!" cried
Sans-Cravate, as he went downstairs four at a time. "Bastringuette will
have a chance to let herself go; she's so fond of good things to eat!
Three cart-wheels to spend: a tricycle! nothing less, by God!"

While Sans-Cravate left the restaurant, singing at the top of his voice,
Albert returned to his place at the table.

"Give me something to drink!" he cried; "champagne! let us play cards
and get drunk! I am in the mood now to do whatever you choose."

"It seems that all the replies are favorable," said Mouillot.

"Oh! very favorable!" rejoined Albert; "I make no secret of the fact
that there was a woman who was inclined to play the prude with me, and
with whom, of course, I was more in love than ever. But I have obtained
an assignation--a tête-à-tête, at last."

"Oho! it's all settled, then."

"An assignation for this evening?" queried Célestin, with an indifferent
air.

"No, not until to-morrow. So I can pass the evening, and the night too,
with you. I am entirely at your service."

"So much the better; we will have a hot game."

"I shall win, for I am in a lucky vein."

"That's not certain; lucky in love doesn't mean lucky at cards; the
proverb says just the opposite."

"For my part, I believe that luck in one brings luck in the other. So
look out for yourselves to-night."

"Messieurs," said Dupétrain, with his elbows on the table, and glaring
at each of his companions in turn, in order to attract their attention,
"I think that the time has come----"

"To put us to sleep?" cried Balivan.

"No; but to tell you about that extraordinary occurrence that I started
to tell you a moment ago."

"I say, messieurs," said Mouillot; "we may as well let him tell his
story; if we don't, he won't give us a moment's peace this evening.--Go
on, Dupétrain; but if it lasts too long, you won't be allowed to finish
it."

"Oh! messieurs, I am sure that the anecdote won't seem long to you; it's
too interesting for that.--A young woman had a husband, who was
travelling----"

"You have already told us that three times."

"This young woman was very desirous to know whether her husband, while
he was away from her----"

"A messenger wants to speak to Monsieur Pigeonnier," said the waiter, at
the door.

All the young men roared with laughter at the expression of Dupétrain's
face when he was interrupted for the third time at the beginning of his
story. But Tobie left the table, saying:

"Excuse me a moment. Don't go on without me. I am coming right back."

Paul was waiting for Tobie; he seemed very tired, and the perspiration
was still streaming from his face. But Monsieur Pigeonnier began by
saying to him:

"It has taken you a very long time; you are very late; if I was a
messenger, I would move quicker than this."

"It's not my fault, monsieur," Paul replied. "I went first to the Marché
du Temple, to see Madame Agar Abraham."

"Speak lower, messenger, lower! Come to the foot of the stairs; there
are too many people passing here."

They went downstairs, and Tobie led Paul into the farthest corner of the
courtyard.

"Now, go on," he said; "I am listening."

"I handed monsieur's letter to Madame Abraham."

"Very good; where's the money she gave you?"

"She gave me no money for monsieur; but after reading the letter, she
cried: 'My nephew is trying to make a fool of me! does he suppose that I
am going to support him in his extravagance? I won't lend him another
sou! not another liard! and if he don't pay what he owes me---- '"

"All right! all right! that's enough! Madame Agar was jesting; in the
first place, I am not her nephew, but that's a favorite term of hers
that she applies to everybody; she even calls some of her lady customers
her nephews. I'll go and give her a lecture, to teach her not to be so
familiar.--Then you went to my concierge, Madame Pluchonneau, who made
haste to do what I wanted?"

"She didn't make any too much haste, monsieur. In the first place, she
cried: 'If monsieur thinks I like doing such errands as this--carrying
his coat to the Mont-de-Piété---- '"

"Hush! hush! not so loud! Those concierges are so infernally insolent.
It's very warm in my room, the sun shines into it all day; I don't need
to keep my winter clothes through the summer, for the moths to eat; and
then, I have so many clothes, I really don't know where to keep them.
Well?"

"Well, monsieur, your concierge went on with her dinner and didn't show
the slightest zeal."

"I'll have my landlord discharge her."

"When she had finished her dinner, she went up to your room.--'If
monsieur sends to the Mont-de-Piété so often,' she said, 'I don't know
what he'll have left to cover his backside.'"

"Backside! she didn't use that word, I trust?"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I have repeated exactly what she said."

"She'll pay dear for that. She shall not do my chamber work any more--I
mean, she shan't help my valet with my cooking. But let us skip these
details; they are eating the dessert without me."

"At last, monsieur, your concierge did your errand. She was gone a very
long time; that's why I could not return any sooner, as you told me to
wait."

"True."

"She came back in a very ill humor, and gave me this for monsieur."

And Paul handed Tobie two five-franc pieces and one of two francs.

"Twelve francs!" he cried. "What does this mean? twelve francs for a
superb silk-lined paletot, with a velvet collar! Messenger, she must
have given you more than this."

Paul repressed with difficulty an angry retort, and handed Tobie a slip
of paper, saying:

"No, monsieur; there wasn't any more money, but she gave me this paper
with it, which will prove that I have handed you all that I received."

The paper was the Mont-de-Piété ticket. Tobie read it, and muttered:

"The Arabs! twelve francs! only twelve francs for a luxurious garment
which cost me a hundred and nineteen! However, I won't let them keep it
long, to teach them---- All right, my boy, all right!"

And Monsieur Pigeonnier started to go away without paying the messenger.
He thought better of it, however, went back to Paul, and put a ten-sou
piece in his hand.

"Here, my boy," he said; "here's your money."

Paul glanced at the ten-sou piece, and could not refrain from saying:

"What, monsieur! this is all you give me for more than three hours?"

"Three hours! three hours! it isn't my fault if you make a job last
forever."

"But, monsieur----"

"I never give less than ten sous for an errand, and never more; it's
quite enough."

"I did two errands for monsieur; I went first to the Temple, and----"

"Well, well, all right! here--for God's sake, don't whine!"

Tobie reluctantly took four sous more from his pocket and gave them to
Paul, then ran quickly up the stairs; while the young messenger,
evidently confused and humiliated by the way in which he had been
treated, walked slowly away from the Maison-Dorée.

Tobie instantly resumed his seat at the table, and, to make up for lost
time, stuffed himself with biscuit, fruit, preserves and confections;
but, although he did full honor to the dessert, his face, when he
rejoined his friends, was very far from expressing the lively
satisfaction depicted on Albert's and Célestin's after their interviews
with their respective messengers.

"This time," said Mouillot, "I fancy that the reply was not so agreeable
as on the two preceding occasions. Young Tobie does not appear perfectly
content. She no longer loves him!"

"I beg your pardon," replied Tobie, filling his glass with champagne;
"on the contrary, she loves me too well."

"It's very strange, but one would swear that you were annoyed. Don't lie
about it: your charmer has given you your walking ticket."

"Not at all! but she's a horribly jealous creature, with whom I was to
dine to-day. I broke my engagement in order to join you, and she writes
me that it is plain that I no longer love her, and that she's going to
take poison; that alarms me a little, because she's quite capable of
doing as she says."

"Nonsense! you must have read it wrong; it's fish [_poisson_] that she's
going to take. Show us her letter."

"Impossible, messieurs! I must respect her reputation."

"I say! you're putting figs and raisins in your pockets now; do you like
them pocketed, too?"

"Oh! I was absent-minded; that devil of a woman! Why need she disturb my
enjoyment! Basta! I won't think any more about her. Another love awaits
me! Give me something to drink!"

Monsieur Dupétrain, who had been coughing persistently for several
minutes to attract the others' attention, replaced his elbows on the
table, and began:

"Messieurs, as the three messengers you were expecting have all come at
last and brought replies to your messages, and as you will not be called
away again, I think that this is an opportune time to tell you my
somnambulistic anecdote."

The young men prepared to listen; and Mouillot drew his watch, saying:

"I am going to see how long your story lasts; I warn you that I give you
only ten minutes. Look, Dupétrain, you see that it's eight twenty-five."

Monsieur Dupétrain did not look at the watch, for he was already off.

"A young woman, the wife of a man who was on a journey----"

But at that moment, Albert, as if he suddenly recalled the plan he had
formed, cried:

"Eight twenty-five! Well, Tobie, what about your appointment for
half-past eight? You have no time to spare, for the lady is not very
patient."

Tobie sprang to his feet, delighted to have an opportunity to leave in a
hurry; without losing an instant, he threw down his napkin and seized
his hat.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried; "that is true; and I had forgotten it for the
moment. I must run. Excuse me, messieurs, but it is an adventure which I
should be very sorry to miss.--Pay for me, Albert; I haven't time to
wait for the bill."

"Very well! Will you come back this evening, to tell us the result of
the interview?"

"To be sure; and to play a game of bouillotte with you. Will you be
here?"

"No," said Mouillot; "if we want to make a night of it, we had better go
to Balivan's; we shall be more at liberty there."

"My studio is at your service, messieurs; with pipes of all sizes, from
all countries."

"All right; then I will join you at Monsieur Balivan's."

"You know my address? Rue Taitbout."

"I know, I know! Au revoir!--By the way, Monsieur Dupétrain, please
don't tell your story till I come back."

Dupétrain made no reply; he had taken his head in his hands and was
fascinating his plate. The young men laughed heartily, and Tobie
disappeared.

VII

MADAME PLAYS.--THE SHOWMEN

Madame Plays was a woman of some twenty-five or thirty years, who looked
her full age, because she had a large and powerfully built frame, and
features in harmony therewith. But although women of that stamp seem to
attain at an early age the summer of their existence, they have the
satisfaction of retaining the aspect of that season when they are well
advanced in their autumn; that is a compensation which may fairly be
considered an advantage.

Madame was a fine figure of a woman; not too tall, but perhaps somewhat
overdeveloped in the way of embonpoint; her outlines were still
graceful, however, and her broad, well-rounded hips showed that she did
not need to resort to artifice to imitate nature. A foot of medium size,
with a gracefully arched instep, a stout but well-proportioned leg, a
pretty arm, a soft, plump hand, with those taper fingers that seem
destined to touch none but pleasant things--so much for the body. A face
of a decidedly rustic type, but fresh and attractive; a large nose, a
large mouth with pretty teeth, brown eyes which promised many things,
and eyebrows which promised still more--so much for the features.

As for her mind, no one ever mentioned it; it was regarded as absent.
She was all material and sensual; but she had had the tact to choose a
husband well suited to her. A man of forty years, stupid as an owl, but
in vigorous health; quite capable, when his wife was not otherwise
provided, of fulfilling all the duties imposed upon him by his marital
office, and deeming himself very fortunate when madame deigned to permit
him to enter upon those duties. In a word, she led him by the nose,
deceived him every day, and did not allow him to dine out without her
permission.

A single incident will suffice to elucidate Monsieur Plays's character.

One day, one of his intimate friends met him a few steps from his home.
When he accosted him, he noticed that Monsieur Plays, who was usually
perfectly calm and placid, seemed somewhat excited, and that his eyes
were rolling from side to side with an unaccustomed expression.

"I was coming to see you, Plays," said his friend; "but what's the
matter with you, pray? you seem rather excited."

Monsieur Plays wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and replied:

"Faith! I have good reason; just listen. I went home just now,
unexpectedly, it is true, for I wanted to tell my wife that I have a box
for the Bouffes; I opened her bedroom door, without knocking, and I
found her--I found her--with one of my cousins--in a position--there was
no mistake about it--you understand, don't you?"

"Oh! yes, I understand perfectly. Well, didn't you do anything?"

"Yes. I went out again and slammed the door with all my might! They must
have seen that I didn't like it."

And the adventure had no other consequences, except that when he next
appeared before his wife Monsieur Plays had a sheepish look, as if he
were ashamed of the way he had ventured to slam the door.

Such was Herminie Plays's husband. He did a large commission business
and made a great deal of money; which was very necessary in his
household, as madame spent an enormous amount for her dress and her
pleasures.

It was half-past eight o'clock. The weather was fair and warm, for it
was still summer; but the daylight was beginning to fade, and one had to
be very near a person to distinguish his features plainly.

There was a large throng in the neighborhood of the flower market of the
Chaussée d'Antin--that is to say, beside the Madeleine. There were not
many flowers left; still there were enough to content the modest
purchasers who came late in order to pay less.

For ten minutes, a woman dressed in the height of fashion had been
walking back and forth in front of the rosebushes, myrtles, and
orange-trees; sometimes she walked on the outer edge of the sidewalk, to
avoid the people who were examining the shrubs; but her glances ranged
over the whole market and its neighborhood; not a man passed without her
looking closely at him to make sure that it was not he for whom she was
waiting; you have already divined that the woman was Herminie Plays.
There was an impatient gleam in her eyes, for a rendezvous of this sort
was something to which she was not accustomed; and if Monsieur Albert
Vermoncey had not been a very fascinating young man, it is probable that
she would already have left the place.

Suddenly a short, stout young man came toward her, walking as rapidly as
his little legs would allow. She saw him coming, but she was about to
turn her head away, for he was not the young man she was expecting, when
he halted in front of her and raised his hat, saying:

"It is surely Madame Plays to whom I have the honor of wishing a
good-evening?"

"Yes, monsieur. Ah! it is Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier! I did not recognize
you at first--it is getting quite dark."

"I recognized you at once, madame; but you have one of those figures
which it is impossible to mistake, and which attract one's eye
instantly."

"You are too gallant, monsieur; but I beg your pardon--I am looking for
somebody, and I am afraid----"

"Do not look for him, it is useless; he will not come--at least, not at
this moment."

"What! what do you mean?"

"That I come from Albert Vermoncey, my intimate friend, who is prevented
by important business from joining you just yet."

"What do you say? he has told you--why, that is very indiscreet on
Monsieur Albert's part. Really, men are a hundred times more garrulous
than women!"

"That is true! O mon Dieu! how true it is!"

"I trust that you do not believe----"

"I believe only that Albert is very fortunate when he is with you."

"That is too kind of you! but what did he tell you to say to me?"

"To offer a thousand excuses--and then, to escort you to a place where
he will join us--a little later."

"Ah! he will join us--and he has sent you to keep me company?"

"If you will be good enough to accept the substitution."

"This seems to me rather inconsiderate on Monsieur Albert's part. I
don't know if I ought to believe you."

"Here's a letter which he gave me for you, so that you might have full
confidence in me."

Madame Plays took the letter, opened it, recognized Albert's signature,
and tried to read it; but it was too dark, so she folded the letter and
put it in her bosom, saying:

"I will read it later; but I see that Albert did really send you to me.
What a harebrained performance! it is characteristic of him! Well, where
are we to wait for him?"

"I will escort you. Will you deign to accept my arm?"

"I must. Oh! this is too absurd; but I can't help laughing at the idea.
Ha! ha! what a madman that Albert is!"

Madame Plays took Tobie's arm, and leaned heavily upon it, because it
tired her to walk; but her cavalier did not complain; he mistook for a
tender pressure what was simply the result of the lady's embonpoint,
and, in his turn, he began thus early to press amorously to his side the
arm that was passed through his.

Pigeonnier led Madame Plays toward the Champs-Élysées. He knew that he
would find in that direction an abundance of restaurants with private
dining-rooms. It was so late, that the lady had surely dined; and he was
not sorry for that, because he would have to regale her with ices or
punch only, which were much less expensive; he had already considered
all these little details. He preferred not to spend the twelve francs he
had obtained on his coat, for he wanted to keep something with which to
play bouillotte, hoping to win enough at that game to pay for his share
of the dinner.

"Are you taking me to the Circus?" asked Madame Plays, when she saw that
they were going toward the Champs-Élysées.

"No. That isn't where Albert is to meet us, but at a nice little
restaurant over yonder."

"A restaurant! but I have dined!"

"Really--you have dined? Ah! that's a pity; however, we can take
something all the same."

"You act as if you weren't certain of the place where Albert is to meet
us."

"I beg your pardon--look--that is the place."

"What! under that mountebank's tent?"

"No; behind it--that café. Yes, that's the place."

Tobie led his charge into a sort of café, and told the waiter who came
forward to meet them to show them to one of the private rooms on the
first floor. Madame Plays did not seem at all alarmed when she heard her
escort ask for a private room. She was afraid of nothing; indeed, she
was strong enough to check any enterprise which did not please her. So
she followed with an assured step as the waiter led them upstairs, then
through a passageway, and opened the door of a small room looking on the
Champs-Élysées.

"What can I offer you?" inquired Tobie of his charming companion; "ices,
punch?"

"I will take an ice."

"Very good.--Waiter, some ices."

As the waiter left the room, Madame Plays exclaimed:

"Why don't you tell him that a gentleman will come and ask for us?"

"Ah! yes, to be sure."

And Pigeonnier ran out of the room, overtook the waiter in the hall, and
said to him:

"Don't bring any biscuits or macaroons or cakes with the ices; madame
doesn't like any of those things; nothing but ices, you understand."

"We always serve them with ices," replied the waiter, with an offended
air; "but you're not obliged to eat them."

"Yes; but I tell you it isn't worth while to serve them."

"Very well, monsieur."

The corpulent young man danced back to the room in which he had left his
charge, who had removed her hat and shawl.

"Excellent," said Tobie to himself; "she is making herself at home; she
made no fuss about coming to a private room, so I conclude that the
affair will go of itself."

"What can we see from here, I wonder?" said Madame Plays, walking to the
window.

"Oh! nothing attractive," said Tobie, who preferred that the window
should remain closed. "We are right above those travelling showmen, who
have set up their booth close to the house, and exhibit bears and
panthers and other monsters, I believe. If I were the proprietor of this
restaurant, it seems to me that I wouldn't have them so near."

"Why not?" said his fair companion, with a smile; "everybody must live,
must they not?"

"Everybody, yes, but not monsters. On my word, I detest monsters--but I
idolize beauty."

As Tobie concluded this sentence, he took Madame Plays's hand and
imprinted a kiss upon it; the charming creature allowed her hand to be
kissed without objection.

The waiter brought the ices; as he placed them on the table, he looked
with amazement at the lady who did not like biscuits; he spent a long
time arranging the ices and spoons, and when he had finished he did not
leave the room; so that Pigeonnier was obliged to say to him:

"That's all right; when I want anything, I will ring."

The waiter departed at last, and Tobie seated himself beside Madame
Plays, placed an ice in front of her, and said:

"I trust that you will not be like this to me."

"What do you mean? flavored with vanilla?"

"No, no; I meant that--if you would not be like ice to me----"

"Indeed! Is that what Albert told you to say to me?"

"Oh! but you know--when one's friends are not by--and one has a burning
heart--and one finds one's self beside such a charming woman----"

The waiter suddenly opened the door and said:

"I didn't bring any biscuits or macaroons, because madame doesn't want
any."

"What! who told you I didn't want any?" demanded Madame Plays.

"Why, monsieur----"

Tobie's face became purple; he glared savagely at the waiter, and
interrupted him with:

"What's that you say? what nonsense is this? I said: 'If your biscuits
aren't fresh, I don't want any; if your macaroons are old, keep
them.'--I do not wish to offer madame anything that is not--worthy of
her."

"But, monsieur--just now, out in the hall, why--that wasn't----"

"If you don't hear straight, it isn't my fault. Go! we have heard
enough; leave us."

The waiter made no reply, but glanced at Tobie with a cunning
expression, as he left the room.

"That waiter is an idiot," said Tobie, eating his ice; "he made me lose
the thread of my discourse."

"So Albert is detained by important business? a rendezvous with some
other woman, perhaps? Doubtless you know all about it, as he confides
his most profound secrets to you. All men are villains when they are
together."

"One thing is certain--that I am very happy; and as for his confidence,
I would willingly abuse it."

"Upon my word, that is very pretty!"

"Listen; if I had the good fortune to be in favor with so lovely a woman
as you, I wouldn't send a friend to stay with her during my absence."

"It is true that that indicates----"

"Vast self-conceit, or perfect indifference."

"Ha! ha! how you abuse your friend!"

"The absent are always in the wrong; that proverb will be true as long
as the world lasts."

"Do you think so? Perhaps I don't agree with you."

"Oh, yes! oh, yes! do agree with me! When one has eyes that----"

Again the waiter opened the door, and entered the room with two dishes,
one filled with biscuits, the other with macaroons.

"There! they are perfectly fresh," he said, as he put them on the table.
"Taste them. They were baked yesterday."

Madame Plays burst out laughing, for Tobie's eyes were like pistols;
however, he dared not say anything, and the waiter was about to leave
the room, when Madame Plays, having finished her vanilla ice, called him
back.

"Waiter, bring me a fruit ice; what fruits have you?"

"We have strawberry, madame--and vanilla."

"I know you have vanilla, as I have just eaten one. But I ask you what
fruit ices you have."

"We have strawberry, madame--and vanilla."

"I understand--you have nothing else."

"I beg pardon, madame; we have mixed ices too."

"What flavors?"

"Strawberry and vanilla."

"Bring me a strawberry, then.--And you, monsieur, won't you take a
strawberry ice?"

This question was addressed to Tobie, who did his utmost to look pleased
as he replied:

"Oh, no! I never eat more than one ice, myself. I shouldn't dream of
doing it. I have noticed that if you eat more than one, they are likely
to do you a lot of harm; they give you cramps in the stomach."

"Oh! I could eat a dozen; I could eat them all day, without the least
bad effect."

"The devil!" thought Tobie; "it's lucky they haven't anything but
strawberry and vanilla."

The waiter went out and soon returned with the strawberry ice. Again he
busied himself arranging the plates and glasses and spoons, but he left
the room at last. Madame Plays attacked the strawberry ice, tasting also
the macaroons and biscuits.

"The cost is climbing up," said Tobie to himself; "this woman eats a
great deal. If I don't divert her attention by making love to her, both
dishes will soon be empty. I have heard it said that women must always
have one sense at work. Let's try to give her something else to think
about."

He drew his chair nearer to Madame Plays, looked her in the eyes, and
heaved a tremendous sigh. The fair creature, who was of a very jolly
disposition, exclaimed, with a smile:

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Tobie, what's the matter with you? You make eyes at
me, and breathe so hard!"

"Ah! madame--I see that Albert did very wrong to send me to you."

"How so? do you repent of having conferred a favor on your friend?"

"But if that favor deprives me of my repose, my happiness, my peace of
mind!"

"Ha! ha! you are joking. How is your repose endangered, pray?"

At that moment, the showman, standing directly beneath the window of the
room occupied by Tobie and his charge, began to announce the performance
by tapping with a stick on a huge picture placed beside the entrance of
the booth. His voice was so shrill and penetrating that it was
impossible for persons in the private rooms not to hear every word he
said, even when they paid no attention; and the following dialogue
between the young man and his fair companion was necessarily interrupted
by the mountebank's periods:

TOBIE (_trying to take Madame Plays's hand_).

You ask me how my repose is endangered. Is it possible that you have not
divined! Great God!

THE SHOWMAN.

The show is about to begin, messieurs and mesdames; it is about to
begin.

MADAME PLAYS.

Let alone my hand! you are sitting very close to me.

THE SHOWMAN.

Now is the time! the time has come! the show is about to begin!

TOBIE.

Ah! I would like to be even closer. I would like----

THE SHOWMAN.

Come in! come in! buy your tickets! there won't be enough for everybody!

MADAME PLAYS.

That fellow is insufferable with his yelling!

TOBIE.

Oh! I am not listening to him. I think only of you, whom I adore. Ah! if
I could obtain a little corner in your heart!

THE SHOWMAN.

There are seats for six sous, four sous, and some for two sous, for the
convenience of the public.

MADAME PLAYS.

But, Monsieur Tobie, really I was very far from expecting this! My heart
does not give itself so quickly; and to win it----

THE SHOWMAN.

Military men are admitted for half-price, and may keep on their spurs.

TOBIE.

Ah! if it were necessary to love you like Orlando Furioso, I am capable
of it. My love is boundless.

THE SHOWMAN.

It is a wonderful, astounding, miraculous exhibition.

MADAME PLAYS.

But how long have you loved me? It seems to have taken you all of a
sudden! I can hardly credit it. Pray, what is there about me that
attracts you so?

THE SHOWMAN.

Curiosities such as were never seen in any part of the world.

TOBIE.

What is there about you, madame! You ask me that? Why, in my eyes, you
are a divinity!

THE SHOWMAN.

An ostrich with a neck as long as a giraffe, who shows his tongue when
you don't ask him to.

MADAME PLAYS.

Hush! you say as much to many other women, I am sure. Tell me, Monsieur
Pigeonnier, how many mistresses have you?

THE SHOWMAN.

Three panthers, which perform all sorts of tricks.

TOBIE.

Mistresses! I have none! and if I had the good fortune to please you,
you would be to me----

THE SHOWMAN.

A real camel, which is absolutely tireless, and stays on its back whole
days at a time.

MADAME PLAYS.

Mon Dieu! how tiresome that man is! hasn't he nearly done? (_She nibbles
a biscuit._)

THE SHOWMAN.

This is the hour for feeding the animals.

TOBIE.

Oh! let me kiss that soft, white hand, let me caress that shapely arm.

THE SHOWMAN.

This is the hour when the male camel plays all sorts of tricks on his
mate.

MADAME PLAYS.

That clown sets my nerves on edge. What an idea to bring me here! Albert
isn't very considerate in his choice of a rendezvous. Oh! Monsieur
Pigeonnier, stop that; I won't allow you to touch my knees in that way.

THE SHOWMAN.

Buy your tickets!

TOBIE (_trying to put his arm round Madame Plays's waist_).

What a graceful figure; you remind me of Venus.

THE SHOWMAN.

There is still room inside; if you are pleased with the show, tell all
your friends and acquaintances.

MADAME PLAYS.

Well, well! what are you doing, Monsieur Tobie? such presumption!

THE SHOWMAN.

The curtain will rise in a moment, and you will see what you will see!

At this point, Madame Plays rose with an impatient gesture, crying:

"Oh! I cannot stand it any longer! such things as that clown says! they
are too hateful to listen to!"

"He has finished; yes, he certainly has finished his announcement; that
noise means that the people are going into the booth."

The booming of a bass-drum and several blasts of a bugle followed the
conclusion of the showman's speech. A few greenhorns and idlers entered
the booth; but most of the spectators walked away, being well aware that
what one sees at the door of such spectacles is always much more amusing
than the exhibition inside.

Tobie took Madame Plays by the hand and led her back to her seat, for he
was eager to renew the conversation, which was just becoming
interesting. The fair dame made no objection, but said, as she resumed
her seat:

"Albert doesn't come, and his behavior begins to have a very strange
look."

Pigeonnier threw himself at her feet, crying:

"Even so! if he doesn't come, that is an additional reason for you to
forget him, to take your revenge, to yield to me."

Madame Plays seemed to hesitate, and somewhat abated her severity toward
the young man at her feet; but, as she was arranging her collar, her
hand came in contact with the letter she had placed in her bosom. She
took it out, saying:

"By the way, I couldn't see to read Albert's letter, on the boulevard.
Let us see what he says, and in what terms he recommends you to me.
After that, I will decide whether I ought to listen to you."

"Read it! read it!" cried Tobie, thinking that Albert's letter could not
fail to have an effect favorable to himself.

Madame Plays read the letter to herself; but as she read on, her cheeks
flushed, her eyes shot fire, and her face assumed an expression of the
most intense indignation. To understand this change, we must remember
that the heedless Albert had written his letter while his friend
Mouillot was preparing the menu for their dinner. With no suspicion of
what he was doing, but thinking that he was writing only the sentences
which came into his mind, he had interspersed some of the dishes which
Mouillot mentioned aloud for the behoof of the company; the result was
an epistle thus conceived:

     "Charming creature, you know how dearly I love you.--For three,
     that will be enough. Your image is constantly before me.--Calf's
     head _en tortue_. To save you the annoyance of waiting for me at
     our rendezvous, I send one of my intimate friends--perfectly fresh.
     He will stay with you--with white sauce."

Madame Plays did not choose to read any further; she crumpled the note
in her hands, threw it on the floor, sprang quickly to her feet, glaring
at Tobie with an expression he was utterly unable to understand, and
said to him in a voice that trembled with anger:

"Do you know the contents of this letter, monsieur?"

"Do I know it! Why, certainly, dear lady; I dictated part of it to my
friend."

"Ah! you dictated it, did you? Then you and your friend are a pair of
low-lived curs!"

With that, Madame Plays dealt Tobie a blow that nailed him to his place
in utter stupefaction; then, seizing her hat and shawl, which she
hardly took time to put on, the wrathful beauty rushed from the room,
not deigning to bestow a glance on the person she left there.

Poor Pigeonnier did not stir for several minutes, he was so paralyzed by
what had happened to him. At last, he rose and began to pace the floor,
crying:

"Ah! this is too much! a blow, because I handed her a letter of
recommendation; a blow, when, just before, she had let me touch her
knee, and---- It is inconceivable! And, with all the rest, I am out of
pocket.--Waiter! waiter!"

The waiter appeared; the expression of his face was even more ironical
than before. Tobie had four francs fifty centimes to pay. He paid it,
sighing profoundly, and saying to himself:

"If only I can win it back at bouillotte!"

At that moment the showman began again, tapping the canvas with his
stick:

"Walk in, messieurs, mesdames; you will see what you will see. Buy your
tickets! if you are not satisfied, you'll get your money back."

"The devil take you!" muttered Tobie, as he left the room. "I am not at
all satisfied; I have spent money recklessly to-day, and I shan't get it
back!"

VIII

THE WINE SHOP.--SCENES AMONG THE COMMON PEOPLE

On the first floor of a wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare was a room
containing several tables; the room was reached by a staircase, which
started from the shop itself and ended almost in the middle of the room
in question, which was frequented by drinkers who desired to be more at
their ease than was possible below.

The room was ordinarily occupied by workmen, loafers, and an occasional
peddler. The workmen, after a laborious day, came to the wine shop to
take a modest meal and to rest their tired limbs; the others, after
idling the greater part of the day, came thither to spend a large part
of the night in the same occupation.

Those who had done no work, and consequently had earned nothing,
generally spent the most money. Economy is almost always the companion
of toil; dissipation, of idleness.

A journeyman mason sat at one of the tables, eating with evident
enjoyment a piece of cheese, washed down with a mug of wine; the
tempting invitations of his comrades were powerless to induce him to
spend another sou, for he was determined to save money and not remain a
mere journeyman all his days.

Near by sat a carpenter, with a red nose, bloated face, and eyes
blinking with the vapors of wine; he had already emptied several
bottles, and, instead of going home to his waiting family, was all ready
to drink some more, inviting his acquaintances and even strangers to
join him, in order to find an excuse for further tippling, aye, to spend
the last sou of the wages he had just received, and for which his wife
was waiting in order to buy bread for their children.

At another table was a man about fifty years of age, with gray hair and
enormous whiskers, whose costume indicated no special profession. His
chin was buried in a piece of ticking, which served him as a cravat; he
wore a coat, but it was torn and patched and much too short for him;
trousers whose color was no longer distinguishable, fastened behind with
strings instead of buckles. On his head was a round hat, if the name can
properly be given to a piece of felt torn in several places, and with
only a few small fragments of brim. But all this did not prevent the
individual in question from carrying his head erect, scrutinizing
everybody who came in, drumming on the table with his knife by way of
accompaniment to the songs he sang under his breath, and, in a word,
making as much noise as many parties produced, although his repast
consisted of only a glass of beer and a piece of bread.

Among the tables surrounded by customers, there was one at which a
supper was being served that aroused the envy of most of the other
occupants of the room: it was the table occupied by Sans-Cravate, his
mistress, and the other two messengers.

The flower girl was seated beside Sans-Cravate, who ate, drank, laughed,
talked, sang, and served his guests with food and drink--all without a
moment's rest; at times, indeed, he succeeded in doing several things at
once.

Mademoiselle Bastringuette did not seem to share her lover's merry
humor; she ate heartily, but spoke very little. From time to time, she
fixed her eyes on Paul, who sat opposite her; but he always avoided
meeting them, the result being that he kept his own eyes on his plate
much of the time.

Jean Ficelle sat opposite Sans-Cravate; he did honor to the supper, and
handled his knife and fork with great dexterity; but that did not
prevent his glancing constantly to right and left, and seeing everything
that took place in the room.

"Who wants some rabbit--a little more of the _gibelotte_?" said
Sans-Cravate, helping himself from an enormous dish, in which the party
had already made a considerable breach. "No one speaks, so I help
myself."

"Give me just a bit," said Jean Ficelle, passing his plate.

"That's right!" cried Sans-Cravate, as he helped his comrade; "you're
all right, you are! You never lag behind at table. But Paul--what a
sluggard! he don't eat, he hardly drinks;--are you sick, my boy?"

"No, indeed," Paul replied, with a smile; "but I am not very hungry."

"Monsieur has something on his mind, and that fills the stomach at the
same time!" muttered Bastringuette, sucking a bone.

"Never mind," rejoined Sans-Cravate; "I don't propose to scold him, as
long as he came, although he don't seem to be enjoying himself any too
much with us."

"_Dame!_ we ain't in the dressmaking line, you know," said
Bastringuette, in a sarcastic tone; "we don't help dress the swells, we
don't spend the day in rooms with waxed and polished floors!"

"Do I?" said Paul, glancing sternly at Bastringuette.

"No; but you're acquainted with people that put on airs and wear gloves!
Upon my word," continued Bastringuette, with a sigh, "I've a right good
mind to change my trade. I'm not going to sell flowers any more; I'm
going to fly higher."

"And sell oranges, eh?" said Sans-Cravate.

"Bah! better than that."

"Herrings, then?"

"What a fool! I tell him I'm going to rise in the world, and he wants me
to lower myself to herring! I'm going to be a trousers maker, and save
up money; save up money to buy a shop with. I sew well enough now, and
I've always had a liking for trousers; that's not surprising, as my
mother used to sell 'em under the pillars in the Market."

"Well, don't you worry, sun of my heart; if I often have days like
to-day, I'll soon have enough nuggets to buy you a well-stocked shop."

"Oh, yes!" retorted Bastringuette, with a shrug; "all I've got to do is
depend on you! it's surprising how you save money; you don't even know
how to make people pay what they owe you----"

"What's that? does anyone owe you money?" cried Jean Ficelle, gazing at
Sans-Cravate in amazement. "Do you mean to say you've got funds
invested? have you had a legacy without telling a friend anything about
it? Pass me some more rabbit, then."

"No, no! do you pay any attention to what Bastringuette says? she's
talking about some people that I helped to move. There was mighty little
to move, and it didn't tire me much; and then, I'd sawed half a cord of
wood and done a few errands, so that they owed me six or seven francs,
perhaps--a magnificent sum!"

"Oh, yes! it's always like that," rejoined the girl. "Look you--it was
last winter; freezing cold, but bright sunlight, and I'd had an idea for
a long time that I'd like to go by the railroad to Corbeil, and then
take a walk in the forest of Fontainebleau, where they say there's
snakes--and I'm very curious to see one, yes, and a big one, too; I've
never been afraid of the beasts. So I says to Sans-Cravate: 'You're
going to take me to Fontainebleau on the railroad, and we'll have a
little spree down there in the country, on the grass; it'll be a little
cold, but all the more fun for that; I like to eat and drink on the
grass. It's a long time since I've been in the country, and it'll do me
good.'--Sans-Cravate felt in his pocket, and found he had only five
francs. I says: 'That's a little scant to do things up brown on the
grass; we ought to have at least twice that. Let's see if there ain't
some way of getting some more cash.'--At that, he says: 'I've got some
customers that owe me something; among others that family that lives on
the fifth in Rue des Martyrs, that I moved six months ago.'--'Well,' I
says, 'if you wait any longer, they'll be moving again, and without your
help this time. Go and get your money; a poor messenger has the right to
ask for what's owing him, after six months.'--And I urged him so that he
decided to go there, but what do you suppose he did?"

"Smashed everything to make 'em pay him," said Jean Ficelle; "at least,
that's what I'd have done."

"Oh! no, you wouldn't," said Sans-Cravate; "if you'd seen the poverty of
those poor people, you'd have done just what I did, for you couldn't
have helped being touched. When I went into their room--they lived up
under the eaves--it was near six o'clock in the morning; I found the man
and his wife still in bed. They had old towels round their heads for
nightcaps, that made 'em look like Turks. They had no bedclothes but an
old quilt all full of holes, so they'd piled all their clothes on the
bed--old dresses, a pair of trousers, and even old boots! all that to
keep 'em warm! And then, in a recess, there was the child's bed--a
pretty, red-cheeked little boy, two or three years old--I say, the bed,
but it wasn't one! Guess what the child was lying in--an old muff, with
hardly any fur left on it; they had stuffed the little fellow into that,
and then taken out the drawer of a commode and put him in it for a bed.
When he saw me come in, the man said: 'My dear friend, if you have come
for what I owe you, I shall have to ask you to be kind enough to wait a
little longer; for I've been out of work for a fortnight. We lie in bed
as long as possible, because we haven't got anything to make a fire, and
what is worse is that I don't know just now what we're going to
breakfast on to-day!'--I'd just like to know if I could ask those people
for money! I tried to comfort 'em a little, and then I went away."

"That's very well, but he don't tell you the whole story," cried
Bastringuette; "he not only didn't ask 'em for what was owing him, but
he left on that poor man's mantelpiece the only five-franc piece he
owned; so, instead of bringing back twice what he had, so that we could
have some fun, he came back without a sou!"

Paul seized Sans-Cravate's hand and shook it warmly, crying:

"Ah! that was fine, Sans-Cravate! that was a fine thing you did! you
have a warm heart, you're a good fellow!"

"Oh! _pardi!_ what a fuss over nothing!" rejoined the messenger, filling
his glass; "of course, that little fellow in the muff had to have some
breakfast! My credit's good at the wine shop, you see, so I could
wait."

"If all creditors acted like that," muttered Jean Ficelle, "trade would
be pretty bad.--I say, Laboussole, if your creditors gave you five
francs, that would suit you down to the ground, eh?"

This apostrophe was addressed to the individual with the striped cravat,
who had long since finished his beer, but was still chewing his bread
and beating the table with his knife as if he were playing a drum. He
thrust out his chin toward his interlocutor, and replied with a
sprightly air:

"I should be a millionaire! as it is, I'm strapped. What do you expect?
you see that every day! and I've known what it is to eat roast veal and
lettuce, and to drink all the wine I wanted. We all have our ups and
downs [_bas_]."

"But he hasn't any stockings [_bas_], just now," murmured Bastringuette,
after a glance at Laboussole; "that fellow looks to me like an old
pickpocket."

"Not at all," said Jean Ficelle; "he's a man who used to have great
talent in his line. But, you see, he has had hard luck."

"What was his line?"

"He was an inspector at the Market."

"The devil! that's a good place; why did he lose it?"

"Oh! they put up a dirty game on him--stuffed fish and chickens in his
pockets, and then said he stole 'em--a low-down trick, I say! One day,
when he had a salmon in one pocket and a turkey in another, they had the
cheek to arrest him and dismiss him for it."

"Couldn't the man tell when he had fish about him?" said Bastringuette.

"Apparently not; there's so much of it at the Market that you walk on
it."

"All the same, his innocence looks to me almighty muddy! What does he do
now?"

"He sells tickets for the _Belle-en-Cuisse_ ball, on Rue des Martyrs,
near the barrier. But when there's no ball, he's _smoked_, and that's
the case to-day."

"I say, old boy, won't you have a drink with us?" said Sans-Cravate,
raising his glass toward Laboussole, who accepted the invitation as soon
as he understood it, and brought his glass to the messengers' table,
saying:

"I never refuse a drink of wine."

Bastringuette made an angry gesture, and muttered between her teeth:

"What a stupid fool that Sans-Cravate is! As if we wanted that old
fossil! But as soon as he has a shiner or two, he's for treating
everybody he sees; so he don't keep 'em long!"

Paul seemed no better pleased than Bastringuette to be at the same table
with the ex-inspector, and he moved his chair away from that
gentleman's, who thereupon seized the opportunity to move close to the
table; and drawing toward him the dish of rabbit, in which only the head
remained, he began to lap it with his tongue, humming:

    "'When a man knows how to love and please,
      What other blessing does he need?'"

"Well, I think we'll have a little dessert," said Sans-Cravate; "we
mustn't stop at rabbit stew.--Come, Bastringuette, what do you want for
dessert?"

"Sausage with garlic," replied the girl.

"Agreed!--Here, waiter! four sausages with garlic, and see that they're
spiced in the good old style--no, five, for Laboussole will take care of
one--eh, old boy?"

"I never refused a sausage," replied that individual, continuing his
perquisitions into every cavity of the rabbit's head.

"Good God! you're eating the eyes!" cried Jean Ficelle, who was watching
Laboussole at work.

"I'd eat yours, if you was stewed. I'm very fond of that tidbit."

The sausages were brought. Each guest took one, except Paul, who
declared that he was not hungry. Whereupon Jean Ficelle assumed his
bantering air, and remarked:

"They ain't sweet enough for him."

And Bastringuette added:

"Perhaps his skirt cutter don't like the taste of garlic!"

"I say, comrade, you don't keep up your end!" cried Sans-Cravate,
forcing Paul to let him fill his glass. "Don't you enjoy being with your
friends?"

"There's no doubt about it," said Jean Ficelle; "Paul's acting damned
queer. Anyone would say that it made him sore to be at the wine shop
with us."

"Why do you attribute such thoughts to me?" rejoined Paul; "am I any
different from you two? What am I but a messenger, like you? As for the
wine shop, as I come here very seldom, it's not surprising that I don't
seem so much at home as you."

"You say you don't come to the wine shop often?" cried Laboussole,
eating his sausage with great zest. "You make a mistake, young man; the
wine shop's the only place where one can enjoy life. It's the rendezvous
of good company. I'd like never to leave it, myself!"

Paul made no reply, but turned his back on Laboussole, while Jean added
maliciously:

"_Dame!_ a man don't go to the wine shop when he can play the swell! and
I'm told that friend Paul has been seen now and then in a fine rig, with
a hat instead of a cap."

"Oho!" cried Sans-Cravate, emptying his glass; "how's that, comrade, do
you play the swell now and then?"

"It's all a mistake," murmured Paul, evidently annoyed by the question.

"I've got good eyes, myself," said Laboussole, tilting his remnant of a
hat over one ear. "Yes, I saw our friend, not more than a week ago, in
the Marais, and he was dressed a good deal like a wholesale grocer."

"Aha! aha!" said Bastringuette, fastening her great black eyes on Paul's
face; "are you a prince disguised as a messenger? It seems to me that
I've heard some such fairy tale as that. If that's so, and you want to
make my fortune, don't be bashful--I'll accept."

"I am nothing more than I appear to be," replied Paul, with a sigh; "but
I have good eyes, too, and I saw monsieur in front of a game of chance
under Pont d'Austerlitz."

The ex-inspector was evidently embarrassed, and tried to pull his hat
over his eyes; he glanced at Jean Ficelle and rejoined in a hoarse
voice:

"That may be! What is there surprising in that? A man goes out for a
stroll, and stops in front of any show he sees. That's the way we sail
down the river of life."

"Come, let's drink and sing!" cried Sans-Cravate. "What's the odds how a
man's dressed, or where he walks? Ain't we our own masters? ain't
liberty as much for one man as another?"

"That's my opinion," replied Laboussole, holding out his glass, the
contents of which he swallowed with the facility of an Englishman
drinking champagne. "You're what I call a man, you are, Sans-Cravate!
and I'm your friend from this minute."

"I don't doubt it!" muttered Bastringuette; "he's anybody's friend
who'll treat him--eh, Paul? Well, Cupid, why don't you answer, instead
of looking at the floor like a girl? Don't you know it's indecent not to
look at a woman when she speaks to you?"

Paul seemed not to hear, and made no reply. As for Sans-Cravate, the
frequent bumpers he had drunk were beginning to excite his brain and
becloud his eyes. He did not notice the glances that his mistress
bestowed upon her vis-à-vis; but Jean Ficelle, who saw everything,
smiled malignantly as he muttered between his teeth, though loudly
enough for Sans-Cravate to hear:

"What infernal traitors women are! If I had a mistress, I'd never take
her into company, unless there was nobody else there."

"Well," observed the shabbily clad guest, attacking the sausage Paul had
refused, "business don't seem to be very bad, my friends, for your life
is watered with wine."

"I had a good evening," said Sans-Cravate; "fifteen francs for one
errand!"

"Peste! is it a duke and peer that you work for, my friend?"

"No; but a young man who lives well! _Bigre!_ that's the kind of a spark
I like. He's open-handed, I tell you!"

"He ain't like mine," said Jean Ficelle; "he flung me a paltry two-franc
piece for trotting about more than two hours."

"Mine gave me even less than that," said Paul; "and yet I had to wait a
long while in several places."

"Ah! my patron's the boy for me," continued Sans-Cravate; "he's a jolly
fellow, and a good one, too! He enjoys himself and wants other people
to do the same. Yes, he's a good fellow; let's drink to the health of
Monsieur Albert Vermoncey."

"That's the talk! Here's to him!"

"Well, Paul, aren't you going to drink?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"Does that prevent your drinking? Come on!"

"No; I've no desire to get drunk."

"Bah! what a soft-head! You're not a man, then; you're an old woman! As
if a man ever refused to drink with friends!"

"No, no," said Jean Ficelle, who was doing his best to set Sans-Cravate
against his young comrade; "he insults us."

"A man never refuses to drink," said Monsieur Laboussole, touching his
glass to Paul's; but the young messenger took his glass and threw it on
the floor, saying:

"I don't choose to drink with you, I say!"

The man with the shapeless hat seemed to view this rebuff with
indifference, and contented himself with the retort:

"Young man, he who breaks glasses--you know the rest, don't you?"

But Sans-Cravate, inflamed by the wine he had drunk, sprang to his feet,
crying:

"_Sacrédié!_ I don't like such manners myself, and if it had been
anybody else---- But you'd better not do it again, or----"

"Well, what?" cried Bastringuette, rising also, and planting herself in
front of Sans-Cravate; "are we going to kick up a row? If we are, why,
I'll make more noise than you! Who ever heard of getting mad with a
friend because he didn't want to drink? Ain't Paul his own master? For
my part, I say he's quite right not to get drunk like you people! When
you're drunk, you're just like brutes, you're good for nothing but
fighting; and if you think anybody loves you, why, you're damnably
mistaken!"

"See how she takes his part!" exclaimed Jean Ficelle; "if you was in
love with the man, it wouldn't be any worse."

"If I'm in love with anyone," retorted Bastringuette, "it ain't with
you, that's sure!"

Sans-Cravate, who was getting more and more excited, and whose jealousy
was beginning to blaze under the influence of Jean Ficelle's hints and
malicious remarks, seized the girl's arm, as she stood beside him, and
shook her roughly.

"It seems to me, also," he cried, "that you take up my comrade's defence
much too warmly! Do you know, I don't like that. Does it mean that
you're inclined to play tricks on me?"

Bastringuette, with a violent wrench, released her arm from the hand
that held it; and snatching a plate from the table, held it over
Sans-Cravate's head, as if to strike him with it. Her face was pale, her
eyebrows drew together, her eyes flashed fire. There was in her wrath
something which embellished her features and almost imparted distinction
to them; everyone was impressed, and Sans-Cravate stood perfectly still,
apparently resigned to receive the threatened blow.

"I ought to break this plate over your head," said Bastringuette; "yes,
that I ought, to teach you to shake my arm like that! If I still loved
you, I'd do it; but as I don't love you any more, I forgive you."

As she spoke, she put the plate back on the table. Sans-Cravate glanced
at her with a disturbed expression, and said in a faltering tone:

"Ah! you don't love me any more?"

"No," rejoined Bastringuette, dwelling upon every word. "I am outspoken.
I don't propose to play tricks on you, as you seem to fear. But from
this moment I am not your mistress; I take back my liberty."

"What! do you mean it?"

"Oh! I don't make any mystery of it, you see; I say it right out before
everybody."

"But----"

"But what? We ain't bound together in such a way that we can't separate.
Would you rather have me do like the women in society? stay with you,
when I don't love you, and deceive you all day? That ain't my style."

"If you don't love me any more, then you must love somebody else!"

"_Pardi!_ that's easy to guess!" muttered Jean Ficelle.

"No matter who I love! it's none of your business! Love whoever you
please! I don't care a hair of monsieur's whiskers!"

And the tall girl pointed to Laboussole, who smiled and caressed his
whiskers, saying:

"All women don't talk that way."

"Ah! so that's how it is!" cried Sans-Cravate, emptying his glass; while
Bastringuette resumed her seat at the table, apparently much calmer.
"All right! as you choose! To the devil with love, and women! Let's have
a drink, my friends; let's have a drink!"

"But it's late," said Paul; "I hear them closing downstairs. Aren't we
going now, Sans-Cravate?"

"Go, if you choose--I am going to stay, with my friends, with my true
friends!" retorted Sans-Cravate, glaring angrily at the young man.

"No; you are going with me; you have had enough to drink; you mustn't
get drunk!"

"What business is it of yours, if it suits me to get drunk? I'm my own
master, too. I haven't any woman now to bother me, and bore me to death.
_Crédié!_ how I will make things hum now!"

"That will be very pretty!" murmured Bastringuette. "He'll do some fine
things. For my part, I don't want anything more to do with men who make
beasts of themselves with drink! I prefer a sober lover--they're more
refined in their love making."

"Drink! drink! more wine, waiter!" cried Sans-Cravate, determined to
befuddle himself still more, in order to avoid manifesting his chagrin
over his rupture with his mistress.

"That's the talk!" said Jean Ficelle. "Sound men never sulk! Let the
maggoty ones go! we can do without 'em!"

"O my friends!" cried Laboussole, in a sentimental tone, "when we are so
comfortable together, we mustn't think of separating; let's stay here a
week--what do you say? Good! we will!"

Paul leaned over toward Bastringuette, and said in an undertone:

"You are responsible for Sans-Cravate's getting drunk. He is drinking to
forget the grief you have caused him by telling him that you meant to
leave him! and it may result in some catastrophe."

"What do I care? I'm done with him. I don't love him any more; I love
somebody else, and that somebody else is you."

Paul drew back without replying. At that moment, they heard roars of
laughter in another part of the room, where the red-nosed carpenter,
surrounded by drinkers, was saying:

"Yes. I'll bet I can do it. Yes, I say, I'll bet I can, and that nobody
else'll do it after me. Bah! you're a pack of cowards, you don't dare to
bet!"

"Ah! there's Cagnoux up to his tricks!" said Jean Ficelle; "challenging
everybody, as usual."

Sans-Cravate left his place and walked to the carpenter's table.

"What is it you're going to do that the others won't do?" he asked.
"That's a pretty good one! Do you think there's no cocks here of your
size, Cagnoux?"

"That's so," muttered Laboussole, emptying all the bottles into his
glass; "yes, we're up to anything, we are! you'd better not defy us."

The carpenter, who was completely drunk, succeeded in getting on his
feet, nevertheless; and trying hard to stand without staggering, raised
an enormous glass and said:

"You see this glass, don't you? holds a pint. Just fill it with brandy,
and I'll empty it at one draught; there ain't one of you smart enough to
do as much."

"Parbleu! that's a wonderful thing," cried Sans-Cravate; "to drink that
glassful of brandy; that ain't very hard."

"Sans-Cravate is quite capable of trying it," said Jean Ficelle, who
also had left his seat, to join the bystanders. "Yes, I know him; he'll
do it. If I hadn't a pain in the stomach, I'd do it myself."

"I'll bet six quarts for the company that I'll drink that glassful of
brandy at one draught, without stopping for breath; do you take me, old
Cagnoux?"

"Done!" replied the carpenter; "shake."

Sans-Cravate stepped forward to take the hand that Cagnoux held out; but
that worthy, being unable to keep his legs any longer, fell back on his
chair, and the messenger's hand struck him on top of the head and
knocked his old cap over his nose. This episode was greeted with shouts
of laughter. The carpenter laughed with the rest, and, having extricated
himself from his cap, exclaimed:

"Bring the brandy, and, if he loses, I'll make the same bet."

Thereupon Paul rose, and, paying no heed to Bastringuette, who asked him
if he would not go away with her, ran to Sans-Cravate and grasped his
hand.

"Sans-Cravate, surely you're not going to take that bet. You are not
going to be crazy enough to drink that enormous glassful of brandy!"

"Why not, I'd like to know?" rejoined the messenger, withdrawing his
hand. "If I choose to do it, is it any of your business? Go and court
Bastringuette, and leave us in peace!"

"You know very well that I am not in love with your mistress."

"Oh! she ain't my mistress any more; it's all one to me whether she's
yours or not."

The tone in which Sans-Cravate spoke indicated that he was not so
indifferent as he claimed to be with respect to the flower girl's
becoming Paul's mistress; but the younger man tried to take his
comrade's hand again, saying:

"Come, come, let's not say anything more about Bastringuette! Your
quarrel with her is none of my business; and, besides, you'll make it up
to-morrow. But I beg you not to drink that enormous quantity of brandy;
it is very dangerous; it may kill you!"

"Bah! and if it does, I don't care!"

"The bet is taken! it's too late to back out," said Jean Ficelle,
rubbing his hands.

"Yes, a bet's a sacred thing," observed Monsieur Laboussole, who had at
last decided to leave the table, on which there was nothing more to
drink, and join the crowd around Sans-Cravate and Cagnoux. "I don't know
anything more sacred than a bet! Once I bet that I'd eat a tremendous
great fried carp, with all its bones. When I'd put down about
three-quarters of it, I found I was strangling; but I'd made the bet, so
I kept on. I tore my throat with a bone, and it was sore for six months;
but I won the bet, which was ten sous, and my honor was safe!"

The waiter appeared with a huge measure of brandy; while he was filling
the mammoth glass, Paul went up to Sans-Cravate once more, and said to
him:

"I am less excited than the others, and I am your friend; for heaven's
sake, listen to me!"

"You're not my friend any more; besides, you broke your glass rather
than drink with me--I haven't forgotten that."

"It wasn't you that I didn't want to drink with; it was Laboussole, and
you'll see later whether I was right or not."

At that moment, there was a general cry of:

"The glass is full! Come, Sans-Cravate, now's the time to show what
you're made of!"

"Here I am!" replied the messenger, roughly shaking himself clear of
Paul's grasp and approaching the table on which stood the subject of the
wager.

But Paul was too quick for him; he ran to the table, reached it first,
and with the back of his hand knocked the glass to the floor, where it
broke in a thousand pieces, and the brandy ran in all directions.

The young messenger's act was followed by a growl of dissatisfaction and
menace. Some of the bystanders seemed to be dazed by the bare idea that
a man could make up his mind to waste such an enormous quantity of the
precious liquid; and Monsieur Laboussole, heedless of the danger of
staining his trousers, instantly dropped on all fours, and, putting his
tongue to the boards, tried to lap up a part of it.

But Sans-Cravate, beside himself with rage and crazy with drink, rushed
at Paul and seized him around the waist, saying in a threatening tone:

"That's an insult! You meant to keep me from winning my bet, but you've
got to give me satisfaction! We are going to fight, do you hear? Look
out for yourself, for I shall strike hard!"

"Yes, yes!" shouted Jean Ficelle; "he insulted Sans-Cravate, he insulted
Cagnoux, he insulted all of us, by breaking that glass. He must have a
licking! we must give him a lesson! that will teach him to behave better
in a wine shop."

And Monsieur Laboussole, still lapping the brandy on the floor, added in
a voice half stifled by his attitude:

"We must beat him; or else make him pay for twice the quantity of brandy
for the company."

Thereupon Bastringuette stepped into the midst of the men who surrounded
the young messenger, and, planting herself in front of him, cried:

"Is the whole lot of you going to take sides against him? That's brave
of you--a dozen against one! I tell you not to lay a finger on him, or
I'll scratch all your eyes out!"

But Sans-Cravate pushed the girl aside with a turn of his wrist.

"He ain't going to fight any twelve men, but just me alone," he
said.--"Come on, are you ready?"

"No," replied Paul, who had remained perfectly calm amid all the uproar,
"no, I won't fight with you."

"Then you're a coward!"

"I am not a coward. Let any other man come forward, and I'll agree to
fight with him; but not with you, Sans-Cravate, for you're out of your
head now, and to-morrow you'll be sorry that you struck your friend."

"Ah! he's crawling! he's crawling!" cried Jean Ficelle. "He wants to
make us think Sans-Cravate has drunk too much."

"I am the one you made a fool of by breaking that glass, and you've got
to fight with me!" repeated Sans-Cravate. "_Crédié!_ come on, and have
done with it, or I'll knock you down!"

The powerful messenger shook his fist at Paul, who remained unmoved and
seemed to have determined not to avoid the blow; while all the men who
stood about drew back to leave more room for the combatants, upon whom
every eye was fixed.

But an unforeseen incident interrupted the scene. Heavy, measured steps
were heard in the wine shop below, followed by the sound of muskets
striking the floor; at the same instant, the waiter appeared at the top
of the stairs, with a terror-stricken air, crying:

"The watch! here's the watch! they're coming up here!"

"The watch!" muttered several of the bystanders; "what are they doing
here?"--"It isn't twelve o'clock."--"We have a right to drink."--"I
won't go away, for one."

"They've come for something else," said the waiter; "there's two
detectives with the soldiers; they've come to arrest someone, I
suppose."

The workmen and the drunkards seemed but little affected by the news.
But Monsieur Laboussole, who was still on all fours, crawled under a
table, although there was no brandy there.

The soldiers and detectives came upstairs almost at the waiter's heels.
They entered the room, leaving two soldiers to watch the stairway.

"Why in the devil do you come here and disturb us?" demanded
Sans-Cravate. "We've no business with you. I'd like to know if we ain't
at liberty to drink and sing, and quarrel a little too, if we want to?"

The detectives, who had already scrutinized everybody in the room, did
not answer Sans-Cravate; but one of them went to the table under which
the ex-inspector of the Market had taken refuge, and dragged him forth
from his hiding-place by the legs.

"This is the gentleman we're looking for," he said.--"Come, up with you!
you must go with us!"

"Messieurs," cried Laboussole, trying to bury his nose in his cravat,
"this is a mistake, I assure you; I must be the victim of an unfortunate
resemblance. I know more than twenty men who look like me."

"No, no, you're the man we want; come, off you go--and step lively!"

"What are you arresting this man for?" demanded Sans-Cravate; while Jean
Ficelle pulled him by the jacket and whispered in his ear:

"Defend him! thrash the curs! you're strong enough."

"Because he's a thief!" replied the detective, pushing Laboussole toward
the stairs.

Paul glanced at Sans-Cravate, who turned pale and neither moved nor
spoke. The word _thief_ had sobered him in an instant.

IX

A STUDIO PARTY.--A FETICH.--THE BURGUNDIAN

It is very disagreeable to be disappointed in one's expectations; but
the disappointment is especially keen after an amorous rendezvous: you
have dreamed of happiness in its most seductive form; your imagination
has conceived the most touching pictures, the most gratifying
situations. All these thoughts have heated your brain and your
mind--when you have one--and your passions at least, in default of a
mind; and when all your anticipations result in nothing at all, you beat
a retreat in dire distress, like the crow in the fable. But if, instead
of the kisses that you hoped to steal, you have received a blow, you are
quite justified in being vexed and angry, as well as distressed.

It is said that a blow from a woman's hand does no harm; doubtless
because, being often dealt in obedience to a hasty impulse, it is
followed by repentance, and the recipient is accorded the privilege of
earning another. But take a sharp, stinging blow, and nothing more. I
doubt whether the fact that it was delivered by the loveliest of women
and the prettiest hand would make it welcome to you.

You will say, perhaps, that Madame Plays had not given young Pigeonnier
a rendezvous. True; but she had accepted his escort, she had consented
to go to a private dining-room with him; and those concessions, in the
judgment of discerning persons, would be tantamount to giving her
consent that he should take Albert's place in every respect.

The little fellow reflected profoundly, as he walked from the
Champs-Élysées to Rue Taitbout; he walked very fast, for one rarely
moves slowly when intensely excited.

"Can it be that Albert didn't write what he dictated to himself?" he
thought. "I ought to have read his letter before delivering it. Can he
have written some insulting thing about her? Was it a deliberate scheme
to make a fool of me? _Fichtre!_ if I knew that, he'd hear something
more from me! I don't propose to be made a guy of!"

In his excitement, the young man brandished his beautiful gold-headed
cane, as if he proposed to break somebody's head; and in his
gesticulations he came within an ace of knocking off the hat of a
respectable lady, its somewhat exaggerated brim happening to be directly
under his cane as he imitated the exploits of a drum-major. Luckily, the
ribbons tied under the lady's chin prevented the hat from falling, and
it was simply thrown back on her shoulders. But the gentleman who was
with the lady, and who was indignant that a passer-by should presume to
knock his wife's hat off with a cane, walked up to Tobie, and said to
him in a threatening tone:

"I say, monsieur, what sort of a performance is this? You threaten us
with your cane! You nearly put my wife's eye out, and you knocked off
her hat, which would have fallen into the street if it hadn't been for
the ribbons!"

"Oh! monsieur, madame, a thousand pardons!" stammered Tobie; "I was so
preoccupied--I didn't see you."

"What! are we dwarfs?"

"No, monsieur--far from it; you are very tall. But when a man is
thinking about something else----"

"That's a fine reason! We were thinking of something else, too,
monsieur. Do you suppose we were thinking of your cane? By heaven! if
you had destroyed my wife's eye, you wouldn't have taken your own home
with you!"

"I am sure of it, monsieur; I ask a thousand pardons."

"When you carry a cane, monsieur, you ought to know how to use it."

"It was because I thought that I was using it that I was gesticulating
with it."

During this colloquy the lady had readjusted her hat; and she drew her
husband away, saying:

"Come, my dear; as monsieur did it accidentally, let's accept his
apologies."

"Accidentally! upon my word, it would be very pretty if he had intended
to do it! By all the devils! if I believed that----"

And the gentleman, becoming more and more enraged as he became more
convinced of his adversary's terror, began to grind his teeth and act as
if he proposed to fall upon Tobie; but Tobie was already far away; he
had taken to his heels, trying to thrust his cane into his pocket, as a
means of avoiding any further disaster.

This incident calmed the young man's excitement.

"I cannot accuse Albert," he said to himself, as he reached the
painter's door; "I have no proofs. I ought to have picked up the letter,
when Madame Plays threw it on the floor. I'll go back to the café
to-morrow and ask the waiter if he found it. Meanwhile, I won't be such
a donkey as to tell what happened to me, for they would laugh at me
unmercifully. On the contrary, I must make them think that my triumph
was complete."

Balivan lived on Rue Taitbout, in the same house as young Elina and her
aunt. His apartments were on the third floor; he had three small rooms,
and a studio which was large enough for him, as he painted nothing but
portraits.

Several times, as he was returning home, the young artist had met the
little dressmaker going to her work; and he had been impressed by her
beauty. Knowing that she was his neighbor, he had tried to form an
acquaintance with her, and had proposed to paint her portrait, if she
would be his model for a study which he intended to exhibit at the
Salon. But Elina had declined his offers, and had always refused to
enter the painter's studio. And yet, it is a very pleasant thing to have
one's own portrait. How many women and girls allow themselves to be
allured by such an offer, by the desire to see their faces at the Salon,
and to have an opportunity to listen to the compliments certain to be
lavished upon them. What joy to say to their companions in the workroom:
"My portrait is at the Salon; I represent an Italian peasant--a Swiss
peasant--and a wood nymph. The painter insisted on putting my face in
all his pictures."--Elina, too, had been tempted; but she had resisted
the temptation. To be sure, Balivan was very ugly.

The artist's studio was lighted by a lamp placed on the stove; its rays
fell upon a full-length portrait of a very pretty woman in a ball dress,
and upon the head of an old soldier, whose nose was not finished;
scattered here and there, on the floor, or hung on the walls, were
various canvases, in all stages of completion, from the merest sketch to
the finished portrait. Some plaster busts, easels, a manikin in female
dress, sketches, and several portraits refused admission to the Salon,
or by the persons for whom they were painted, and relegated by the
artist to the darkest corners of the studio, combined to give a unique
aspect to the apartment.

Four young men, seated around a table in the middle of the room, were
enjoying with great zest the pleasures of bouillotte. On a small table,
close at hand, stood an enormous salad bowl filled with blazing punch;
and glasses, pipes, cigars, tobacco pouches, and even snuffboxes, were
scattered over another small table of Chinese lacquer, which had
momentarily deserted the artist's salon to embellish his studio.

When Tobie appeared, the card table was occupied by Albert, Célestin,
Mouillot, and a young man, who was not of the dinner party at the
Maison-Dorée, but had joined the band of roisterers when they left the
restaurant, and had asked for nothing better than to pass the night with
them at bouillotte.

This young man, who was the possessor of an insignificant and utterly
expressionless face, had hair so light that it was almost white, and
eyebrows of the same color, which gave him some resemblance to an
albino; still, in spite of that, he might have been considered a
good-looking fellow enough, if his manner had been less indolent; but he
had about twelve thousand francs a year, which his family permitted him
to consume in Paris; the result being that in society, and especially
among the high livers, Monsieur Varinet's company was much sought after.
Not that he was amiable and jovial in society: he was always cold and
impassive, and not even wine had the power to enliven him; but he spent
his money with the same indifference which he displayed in every other
action of his life; and he would lose large sums at cards without any
sign of emotion. All his friends esteemed him highly on that account.

Gold and silver were scattered over the table, and the animated air of
the players indicated that the game was beginning to be warm.

Balivan himself was filling the glasses with punch, and Dupétrain sat in
front of the manikin dressed as a woman, which he seemed to be
scrutinizing with care.

"Ah! here's Tobie! _Vive Tobie!_" cried the artist, as Pigeonnier
entered the room. And, despite their absorbing interest in the game, the
card players joined in the cry:

"Here's Tobie! Here's that Don Juan of a Tobie!"

The young man with white eyebrows was the only one who said nothing; he
contented himself with saluting the new-comer, as one salutes a person
with whom he is but slightly acquainted.

"Yes, messieurs, it's I," said Pigeonnier, wiping his forehead. "You are
well started already, I see. I speak for a place."

"You can come in with Balivan," said Célestin. "There are six of us now;
two will go out on the quarter-hour."

"And Monsieur Dupétrain?"

"Who ever heard of Dupétrain playing cards? Upon my soul, I believe he's
trying to magnetize my manikin!"

"Well, Tobie," said Albert, "what news of our fair one? Are you content?
Did she accept the substitution with a good grace?"

"I am perfectly content!" Pigeonnier replied, trying to assume a
triumphant swagger. "She didn't seem at all angry over the adventure;
she treated me very kindly."

"Good--I understand. So everything went as you wished, eh?"

"In other words, it is impossible for me to be happier than I have
been."

"What did I tell you?"

"You're not attending to your game, Albert," said Célestin.

"Yes, I am. I have opened."

"I take all bets."

"Done!"

"You're stuck! I have _misty_."[C]

"What infernal luck! That makes four hundred francs I've lost
already!--I say, Balivan, give me some punch, to drown my loss."

"Give me a cigar, Balivan."

"Balivan, you promised me your Moorish pipe; you are going to give it to
me, aren't you?"

"Pass me your tobacco pouch, will you?"

"One moment, messieurs, I can't do everything; I'm going to call my
lady's-maid, on condition that you treat her with respect.--Hallo,
there, Crevette!"

"Is Crevette your servant's name?" inquired Tobie, helping himself to
punch.

"Yes, she's a Burgundian; she had a name that I didn't fancy--it was
Cateau![D] You understand that, when I had a lady of fashion here, I
couldn't say: 'Cateau, come and take off madame's shawl. Cateau, go and
call a cab.' To talk constantly of Cateau before my models, too, was
imprudent. So I asked my Burgundian for her family name, and she's a
Crevette."

The Burgundian answered her master's summons. She was a robust young
woman, with plump red cheeks, and enormous hands and arms of the hue of
boiled lobster. She laughed readily enough at the somewhat décolleté
jests which the young men addressed to her; but when their words were
reinforced by gestures, the Burgundian made free use of her hands, and
the lightest tap dealt by her was equivalent to a hard blow with the
fist.

"Bring us something to drink, Crevette."

"Punch?" said the Burgundian.

"Beer for me, my chubby wench!--Isn't she fresh, though! and solid!"

"Come, come! down with your paws! I won't have you touching me!"

"Oh! what a calf she must have!--Crevette, show me your leg, just up to
the garter, and I'll give you half of my winnings."

"No, I won't show you anything."

"Parbleu! that's a magnificent offer of his, to give you half of his
winnings! he's lost ten napoleons already!"

Young Tobie, who had swallowed three glasses of punch in succession in
order to attain the level of the rest of the company, softly approached
the servant and seized her leg while her back was turned; but the
Burgundian, without putting down her tray, instantly brought her elbow
back against his nose, crying:

"Let that teach you to pinch me! I'm going to bed--I won't come into
your studio again, monsieur; your friends are too enterprising."

Crevette vanished; Tobie put his hand to his nose and seated himself in
a corner, muttering:

"I won't fool with her any more; there's no feeling in my nose."

"Poor Tobie! but he can't seem to get enough. He comes here fresh from a
delicious tête-à-tête with a charming woman, and he must needs begin at
once on a servant! What an omnibus seducer!"

"What would he do, I wonder," said Balivan, "if he should see my little
neighbor overhead?"

"You have a pretty neighbor, have you?" queried Albert.

"Charming! Seventeen years old at most, I judge; a fascinating figure!
and a saucy, mischievous face--with innocence, grace, and modesty in her
glance. Seriously, she's one of the prettiest grisettes I ever saw."

"Send for her!" cried the young men in chorus.

"Make her come down, Balivan."

"Shall I go up and fetch her?" asked Tobie, taking his hand from his
nose, which was badly swollen by the blow he had received.

"I will magnetize her; she will enjoy that," said Dupétrain.

"No, messieurs," said Balivan, "there's no way of inducing her to come
here. Parbleu! if it could be done, I'd ask nothing better. I have
offered again and again to paint her portrait and give it to her--to
paint her in any costume she chose."

"Even as Eve, if she wanted you to, eh?"

"All my offers have been declined. She's a virtuous young woman, it
would seem. She lives with her aunt, and never goes out except to her
work; she's a dressmaker."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Célestin; "she's a dressmaker, and you haven't
triumphed over her, my dear fellow! Others may succeed better; and if I
should take a hand----"

"Oh! you are such a superb creature, it's quite possible. Still, I doubt
it."

"What do you want to bet?"

"Come, attend to your game, messieurs, for God's sake!" said Mouillot.
"Sapristi! I have _misty_, and not one of you stands!"

"Monsieur had _brelan_, and he passed!" cried Tobie. "What a blunder!"

"Not at all. Do you think we're playing _brelan_?"

"You're not playing _brelan?_ Why, aren't you playing bouillotte?"

"Yes, but the _brelan_[E] is never played in bouillotte, nowadays. Where
have you been, young Pigeonnier?"

"What do you play, then?"

"_Misty._"

"What's _misty_?"

"The knave of clubs with two cards of the same color and same size; for
instance, two red nines, or two black aces."

"Very well. And the _brelan_ doesn't count, you say?"

"Not unless _misty_ isn't out; in that case, it's good."

"And the _brelan carré_?"

"Oh! that's always good, and it beats _misty_."

"The devil! I'm rather mixed up with all this; I'm afraid I shall make
mistakes."

"Oh, no! you'll get hold of it in a minute."

Monsieur Dupétrain walked up to Tobie, who was standing by the card
table, and said:

"While you're not playing, I can tell you the anecdote about magnetism
that you were so curious to hear. After you left the dinner table, I
didn't choose to tell it; I preferred to wait for you.--A young married
woman, whose husband had just started on a journey----"

"Excuse me," said Tobie, "but I am studying _misty;_ I don't quite
understand this new way of playing bouillotte, and I shall be very glad
not to make any mistakes. Besides, the quarter has struck, messieurs.
Who goes out?"

"Mouillot and Célestin.--Come, messieurs, give up your seats."

"We'll just finish the _volante_, then we'll go."

"The _volante_?" exclaimed Tobie; "what in the deuce is that?"

"Each person puts in a chip when everyone passes, and you keep putting
in one as long as they pass."

"The devil! that may mount up pretty high, messieurs! why, you are
playing an infernal game!"

"Does it frighten you, Monsieur Tobie?"

"I don't say that. What's the stake?"

"Five francs."

The stout youth felt in his pocket, where he found only enough for one
stake and half of another. However, he assumed a self-assured air as he
took the seat vacated by Célestin, while the artist replaced the jovial
Mouillot.

"Célestin has made his little pile!" laughed Albert.

"I? oh, no! I have made myself good, that's all!--Come, Balivan, to
return to your pretty neighbor,--do you want to bet my portrait that I
don't succeed in seducing her?"

"Yes. But let us understand each other: if I lose, I'll paint your
portrait for nothing."

"Just so."

"But if I win?"

"Then I'll pay you for the portrait."

"Indeed! what a generous youth! Where do I gain anything in that, I
wonder?"

"Messieurs," said Mouillot, "I'll bet something much more agreeable for
the company. I'll bet that I get the little neighbor to come down here."

"Ah! that's something like."

"You said that she lived overhead, Balivan?"

"Yes."

"Very good! just give me a hammer; I'll demolish the ceiling, and then
the fascinating grisette will fall through."

"Ha! ha! a famous method!"

Young Tobie, who had already lost his stake, and had taken money from
the pool to make up the second one, was no longer in the mood for
laughing.

"I say, messieurs," he cried, "just because you're not playing now, you
prevent other people from playing. Leave us in peace, will you? I have
lost a pile of money already. I keep making mistakes; I have _misty_,
and don't see it."

"Bah! a pile of money! he's lost his stake once."

"Besides, my dear fellow, a man can't expect luck in everything. You
have just come from a tête-à-tête in which a pretty woman has crowned
you with myrtle! you can afford to lose your money."

Tobie bit his lips in vexation and made no reply.

"And then, too, he pinched Crevette's leg!" laughed Mouillot.

"And he has a swollen nose," added Célestin. "The fellow is lucky on all
sides.--Some punch, messieurs?"

"With pleasure. I bet twenty francs."

"I take it," said Tobie.

"And I. Show down."

The hands were placed on the table. Monsieur Varinet, who had followed
Tobie, had _misty_; but the stout youth, who had three aces, pounced on
the money, thinking that he had won. His white-eyebrowed antagonist
checked him with the utmost coolness, saying:

"What are you doing? don't you see that I have _misty_?"

"And don't you see that I have three aces?"

"Your three aces amount to nothing, as we're not playing the _brelan_."

"Oh! mon Dieu! I had quite forgotten that; I never thought of it! It's a
mistake, messieurs; the hand ought to be thrown out."

"Not at all," said Albert; "you must pay attention; besides, you might
have won with your three aces, if you hadn't run against a _misty_.
Come, pay up, my dear fellow. Parbleu! you're not so badly off! you're
less than thirty francs to the bad."

"Thirty francs fifty, and now I've lost my stake again! This is very
fine!"

"Ingrate! after being so lucky in love, not to be willing to be unlucky
at play."

"I don't see the necessity of losing all the time."

"Think of Madame Plays, and complain if you dare!"

Young Tobie made a wry face every time Madame Plays was mentioned, and
he looked furtively at Albert, muttering between his teeth. After
feeling in all his pockets, he feigned an air of astonishment, saying:

"Well, well! I haven't any more money."

"You must have discovered that before," suggested Balivan, "as you have
already taken some from the pool."

"Ah! yes, of course.--Will you lend me three or four napoleons, Albert?"

"I would with the greatest pleasure," Albert replied; "but I am out more
than five hundred francs myself, and I have had to borrow. Put up a
fetich, that's the simplest way--put a sou, a key, anything you please,
in front of you, and call it worth any amount you choose."

"True, you are right; I'll put up a fetich."

Tobie felt in his pocket; he produced one of the olives he had stored
there at dinner, and placed it in front of him, saying:

"That stands for five hundred francs!"

The painter roared with laughter.

"Rather high-priced olives!" he said.

"I'm not surprised that he filled his pockets with them; he must have
taken at least ten thousand francs' worth," cried Mouillot. "Come, who
wants some punch? I'll fill the glasses. By the way, I don't see our
magnetizer. Where's Dupétrain? Has he gone?"

"Probably," said Balivan. "He never plays, and, seeing that there was no
hope of telling us his story, perhaps he has gone home to bed, to try to
put someone to sleep."

"What's your pretty neighbor's name?" inquired Célestin, stretching
himself out on a couch.

"My neighbor? Wait a minute--I go the limit."

"I take it," said Tobie, rolling his eyes about in a high state of
excitement. "I take all bets."

"All right."

Tobie showed a _misty_; but Balivan had a _brelan carré_.

"You told me just now that _brelans_ didn't count!" cried the little
fellow.

"True, except _brelans carrés_; they always beat everything."

"Well, then, I don't understand anything at all about it; it's enough to
drive a man mad! I don't know what I am playing."

"Come, pay me. You're very lucky, for I bet almost nothing--only
twenty-one francs."

"A man can ruin himself with such luck. Here, change this for me; it
stands for five hundred francs."

Tobie offered his olive; but Balivan shook his head.

"I haven't enough money to change it for you, you can see that for
yourself. You owe me twenty-one francs."

A few moments later, Tobie lost fifteen francs to Monsieur Varinet, who
had a heap of gold and silver in front of him. He offered him his
fetich, saying:

"Oblige me by giving me the change for this; it will make it easier for
me to pay."

Monsieur Varinet took the olive and placed it in front of him, and
handed four hundred francs in gold and eighty-five in silver to Tobie,
who seemed to take great pleasure in receiving the change for his olive,
and, while pretending to arrange it in piles, seized the opportunity to
slip several gold pieces into his pocket.

"You owe me twenty-one francs," said Balivan.

"Oh, yes! How the five hundred francs melts away! It will soon be gone."

"Oh! you have a good margin!"

"Isn't it time for us to give up our seats?"

"We don't go out next; it's Monsieur Varinet's turn and Albert's."

"Oh! I thought it was ours."

"Of course not, as we have just come in."

Tobie seemed very anxious now to leave the table; but he was obliged to
remain, while Célestin and Mouillot took the places occupied by Albert
and Varinet. The latter carefully bestowed the olive in his fob.

"I must make sure not to lose that," he said; "it's as good as a
banknote. If I should take it into my head to eat it, it would be rather
expensive."

"I've lost six hundred francs," said Albert; "but I don't care a damn;
for I trust that the proverb will come true in my case as in Tobie's,
and then I shall be lucky in love to-morrow! Ah! how I wish it were
to-morrow! and it's only half-past twelve."

"Half-past twelve!" cried Tobie. "Mon Dieu! I said nothing to my
concierge, and I'm horribly afraid I shan't be able to get in."

"You can pass the night here."

"Sleep away from home! No, indeed! Besides, I have an appointment at my
rooms early to-morrow; and when I don't get a few hours' sleep, I'm
always sick a week."

"What in the devil's the use of such a man as that!" said Mouillot; "for
my part, I always sit up as long as anyone wants, I drink as much as
anyone, and I make love as much as anyone; and I'm always well!"

Albert was walking about the studio; he paused in front of the different
portraits of women, and said:

"What lucky dogs these painters are! When they have a pretty woman for a
model, they have a right to look at her as often and as long as they
please; to order her to smile; and to put her in whatever position they
like best!"

"It's a very voluptuous profession!" said Tobie, glancing constantly at
Balivan's watch, which had been placed on the table in order to regulate
the coming-in and going-out of the different players.

"Well, messieurs, it seems to me your game is rather slow," said
Varinet, walking up to the table.

"Parbleu! Tobie keeps passing with superb hands," cried Balivan. "It
would seem that he doesn't want to resort to another olive."

"I am waiting for a lucky streak. Ah! now it's time for us to go out."

Pigeonnier hastily left his seat, and Balivan was obliged to do the
same, but he did it unwillingly.

"We had at least half a minute more to stay," he said. "Tobie left too
soon."

"Quarter to one!" cried the stout youth, with a glance at the clock.
"Mon Dieu! Madame Pluchonneau, my concierge, is very hard of hearing."

Balivan seized Tobie's arm as he was edging toward the door while making
a pretence of examining the pictures, and led him back to the punch
table.

"Come and have a drink," he said.

"But I've drunk a great deal already."

"All the more reason. Will you smoke?"

"Yes, with pleasure, if you'll get me one of your foreign pipes."

"They're right here; I don't need to leave the studio; wait a moment,
and I'll fill one for you."

Tobie, who had hoped that the painter would leave him, and had proposed
to seize the opportunity to steal away unperceived, was obliged to
remain; and he wandered about the studio with a very preoccupied air.

"There, smoke that, and tell me what you think of it," said the painter,
offering the young man a narghile of enormous length. "That was Ali
Pacha's pipe."

"The devil! suppose my smoking it should make me a savage beast like
him! Never mind, I'll take the risk. But how am I to light it? it isn't
at all easy, the bowl's so far away."

"You put a candle on the floor, and then hold the pipe to it."

"All right."

Tobie took one of the candles from the card table, and put it on the
floor.

"I beg pardon, messieurs," he said; "but I want it to light Ali Pacha's
pipe."

He had no sooner put the bowl of the pipe, the stem of which he held in
his mouth, to the flame of the candle, than there was a loud report,
like a pistol-shot, the pipe bowl burst, the candle was tipped over, a
dense smoke filled the studio, fragments of pipe flew in all directions,
and Tobie narrowly missed swallowing a piece of the stem, which stuck in
his throat an instant after the report.

He fell backward to the floor. Everybody was dismayed for a moment, but,
after the first fright, roars of laughter arose on all sides, except
from the direction of Tobie, who was still gagged, as it were, by the
fragment of pipe stem.

"What infernal kind of tobacco is that?" cried Mouillot.

"Balivan must have had a fit of abstraction," said Albert.

The artist put his hand to his head, and looked in the drawer from which
he had taken what he supposed to be tobacco.

"Great God!" he exclaimed. "I see what the trouble is. My infernal
pupils insisted on making cartridges this morning for a rifle I wanted
to try; one of those that load at the breech. I didn't notice that I was
taking powder instead of tobacco. Poor Tobie! I am terribly distressed.
Well, well! what in the devil's the matter with him?"

Tobie could not speak, but he pointed to his mouth, which was wide open,
and made up a pitiful face. They went hastily to his assistance, and
with a small pair of pincers removed the piece of stem which had stuck
between his tongue and his windpipe, like the sound-post of a violin.

"_Sacrédié!_" ejaculated Tobie, as soon as he could speak; "what an
outrage! to give me a pipe filled with powder! That's a mighty poor
joke, messieurs! it might have killed me! I think very highly of Ali
Pacha's narghile!"

Balivan had much difficulty in pacifying the little man, and making him
understand that when he filled the pipe he was thinking of something
else, which prevented his noticing what he filled it with. Tobie was
beginning to recover from his fright, and the game of bouillotte was in
progress once more, when shrill cries were heard in the direction of the
kitchen, and Balivan recognized his maid-servant's voice.

"Has Crevette also been trying to smoke one of Ali Pacha's pipes?" said
Mouillot.

"Let us go and see what the trouble is!"

"Let us hasten to succor the Burgundian!"

All the young men hurried after Balivan, Tobie alone excepted; he took
advantage of the confusion to leave the house, overjoyed to carry away
the change for his olive.

Meanwhile, the painter had reached the kitchen, where he found no one;
thence he passed into a small, dark room, where his servant slept, and
there he discovered Mademoiselle Crevette, with no other clothing than
the one garment which Englishwomen blush to name, holding the magnetizer
Dupétrain down on the floor, and pounding him vigorously with her fist,
shouting the while:

"Ah! you villain! just look at this joker! My faith! that was a fine
idea of his! to come into my room while I was asleep, to do--I don't
know what! Luckily, I was only asleep with one eye, and I stopped him
just when he'd made up his mind I was too warm, I suppose, for he was
pulling off my bedclothes."

They succeeded, not without difficulty, in rescuing Dupétrain from the
Burgundian, who would have liked to go on beating him; but when she
realized that she was standing before all those young men in her
chemise, she suddenly jumped back toward her bed; being, however, a
little heavy for gymnastic exercises, she fell sidewise on the mattress,
thus exposing the roundest part of her person to the assembled company.

"Bravo! magnificent!" they exclaimed, clapping their hands. "Come,
Crevette, just one more jump! you do it so well! What a full moon! We
shall have a fine day to-morrow!"

The Burgundian was furious; she seized her pitcher and held it up in the
air.

"If you don't clear out of my room, I'll throw it at your heads!"

Balivan, who knew that she was quite capable of doing what she
threatened, succeeded in pushing them all out of the room, and they
returned to the studio.

"Aha! Monsieur Dupétrain," said Mouillot, "you are a sad rake, it
seems."

"That's a very neat trick," said the painter; "we thought you had gone
home, and you had stolen into my servant's room!"

"He wanted to magnetize her, no doubt."

"Messieurs," said Dupétrain, decidedly embarrassed, "I swear to you that
this is nothing of any consequence, and that the Burgundian rustic
misapprehended my intentions. For what did I propose to do? simply make
an experiment in magnetism on that dull, brutish temperament. I said to
myself: 'If I can succeed in putting that countrywoman into a trance,
what an extraordinary proof it will be of the power of my art!'"

"Yes; and he took off Crevette's bedclothes, so that he could see that
dull temperament."

"Messieurs, to put myself in communication with a subject, it is
necessary----"

"Enough! we don't want to hear any more. To the card table!"

"Why! someone is missing," said Mouillot.

"That's so. Tobie isn't here. Can he have gone away? It isn't possible."

They searched the studio, thinking that he had hidden, to play a trick
on them; but they found that he had really gone.

"Oh! he'd been itching to go for a long while," said Balivan.

"Yes, ever since he changed his fetich."

"That's a very convenient dodge," observed Mouillot; "he had at least
four hundred and fifty francs left of the change for his olive, and he's
gone off with it.--Varinet, you have a fetich of very doubtful value."

Varinet calmly wrapped the olive in a piece of paper and put it back in
his pocket.

"Do you think that that young man is capable of leaving this pledge in
my hands?" he said. "I believe that he will come to my house to redeem
it."

"Oh! he'll redeem it," said Albert; "I have no doubt of that."

But Célestin shook his head.

"Perhaps he will," he murmured; "but he's quite capable of forgetting
his debt, and I fancy you'll have to remind him of it. Don't lose your
fetich."

"For my part," said Mouillot, "I wouldn't give three francs for that
olive."

The young men resumed their game, after saying good-night to Dupétrain,
whom Balivan escorted to the landing, to make sure that he did not
mistake his road and return to make another attempt to put his servant
in a trance.

For an hour longer, the game was very brisk. At the end of that time,
Albert, who had lost twelve hundred francs, threw himself on the couch,
saying:

"I've had enough, messieurs; I am going to sleep here till daylight."

The other four young men continued the game for some time. At last,
Célestin, who had won largely and had no desire to lose what he had won,
pretended that he too was sleepy, and lay down on the divan. Mouillot,
Balivan, and Varinet played on for a considerable time, until Balivan,
having lost heavily, left the table, saying:

"I am going to bed."

"Now it's between us," said Mouillot to the young man with white
eyebrows; "a _brûlot_."

"What! can two play bouillotte?"

"Oh, yes! and it's very interesting. It's for the one whose turn it is
to bet, to speak; if he sees nothing in his hand, he puts in a chip, and
the other does the same. It's a game you can play a long while without
saying a word, as you pass very often."

Varinet consented to play; but Mouillot, who was decidedly lucky at
two-handed bouillotte, and who played a very shrewd game, soon won all
his opponent's money; Varinet had nothing left but the olive, and he
proposed to stake that; but Mouillot, who was not anxious to win it,
preferred to follow the example of the others and take a little nap. He
lay down beside Célestin on the divan.

The young man with white eyebrows reclined in an easy-chair, and soon
everybody was asleep in the artist's studio, where the most absolute
quiet had succeeded the noisy outbursts of merriment engendered by the
fumes of the punch.

X

THE LOFT

After the scene in the wine shop, the habitués had retired one after
another, Paul among the first; but before he went away, he had glanced
at Sans-Cravate with an expression which bore not the slightest trace of
ill humor for the latter's threats; on the contrary, it seemed to
suggest the hope that a hand would be offered as a sign of
reconciliation. Sans-Cravate apparently hesitated for a moment; but Jean
Ficelle whispered in his ear, and he turned away without a word to the
young messenger.

Paul slept very little that night; because he was thinking, not of what
had happened at the wine shop, but of what he had to do the next
morning. The thought that he was going to see Elina, that he was going
to pass some time with her, filled his heart with the keenest joy in
anticipation. The girl's face was constantly before his eyes; to think
about a woman whom one loves is much better than sleeping; waking dreams
are often very sweet; for one shapes them according to his own
pleasure; while those which come to us during our sleep are not always
rose-colored.

The clock had just struck half-past five, when Paul pulled the copper
bell knob of the house in which Elina lived with her aunt. Nobody
answered the bell, and the young man was obliged to ring twice more; for
the concierges of the Chaussée d'Antin do not rise so early as their
brethren of the Marais. The door was opened at last by an old fellow,
who passed his head, swathed in several cotton nightcaps, through a
little, round window, and asked in a wrathful tone:

"Who is it who has the effrontery to ring my bell at this time of day?
Who do you want to see? No one's up?"

"Excuse me, monsieur," said Paul; "I am going up to Mademoiselle
Elina's, to help her move; and she must be up, for she herself asked me
to come at half-past five."

"Bah! this is interesting!" snarled the concierge. "Some of 'em are up
at daybreak, others don't go to bed at all, but pass the night playing
cards and raising the devil! It was outrageous, the way they acted last
night; the noise they made in that dauber's studio. I wonder when
they'll turn that fellow out of the house."

Paul did not stay to listen to the concierge's reflections; he had
already started upstairs, and he soon reached the door of Madame
Vardeine's apartment. He coughed softly, and the door was opened at
once, for Elina was already up and waiting for him; perhaps, indeed, she
had slept no more than he.

If, gentle reader, you are surprised that a young and pretty dressmaker
should have a tender feeling for a mere messenger, you must remember
that in Paul's manners and language there was none of the coarseness
generally characteristic of those of his calling; that he had received a
good education, through the kindness of a generous benefactor; that he
had performed the duties of clerk for a considerable time; and, lastly,
that, although circumstances had forced him to resort to the _crochets_
of a messenger, he had not chosen to adopt the habits of his confrères:
that he did not frequent wine shops, to which his visit of the previous
evening was his first, and that his language was still as refined and
agreeable as his voice.

"Here I am, mademoiselle," said Paul, saluting the young woman awkwardly
enough; for nothing makes a man so awkward as a first love, especially a
man who does not make a business of seduction. It is not so with women:
love almost always makes them more charming and attractive; by
augmenting their desire to please, it heightens the charms they already
possess and sometimes gives them others which had not previously been
detected in them. "I have come too early, perhaps; did I wake you?"

"Oh, no! Monsieur Paul," the girl replied, with a pleasant smile. "I
have been awake a long time, and was waiting for you. Come in, but don't
make any noise, for my aunt is still asleep, and I should be very glad
if she could find everything done when she wakes."

The messenger followed Elina into the apartment, and she showed him the
little room which she occupied.

"That's all the furniture I have," she said; "a cot-bed, a walnut
wardrobe, this little desk, and a chair; but I'm afraid it's too much
for a loft. However, I should like to get it all in, if I could; for the
wardrobe was my mother's and the little desk my father's, and with those
two pieces it seems to me as if I wasn't quite an orphan--as if papa
and mamma were still here looking out for me. I think one is so
fortunate to have something that used to belong to one's parents. Why, I
wouldn't sell those two things for all the gold in the world! And yet,
they're old and out of fashion; my aunt said once that the wardrobe
wasn't good for anything but firewood. Oh! I was terribly angry that
day! and my aunt has never said that again. Burn this wardrobe, in which
my mother kept her dresses and all her clothes, and this desk that my
father wrote on every day--never! never! And even if I should ever be
rich, I should think just as much of them, and I would never part with
them."

Tears stood in Elina's eyes when she finished. Paul looked at her with
emotion, lovingly; she seemed to him prettier than ever, for laudable
sentiments have a way of embellishing those who are inspired by them,
whereas evil sentiments change and distort the prettiest face. Women do
not regard their own interests when they are angry, sulky, or jealous.

"You are quite right, mademoiselle," said Paul, with a sigh; "you must
be very happy to have something that comes from your parents."

"Have you lost yours, Monsieur Paul?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"A long while ago?"

"Yes."

"Didn't they leave you anything that had belonged to them?"

"No, mademoiselle--nothing."

"Mon Dieu! what an extraordinary resemblance there is between us! Both
orphans; both hardly knew our parents--we are in the same situation."

"Oh! no, mademoiselle; you are much more fortunate!"

"Yes, of course; because I have this wardrobe and this little desk."

Paul made no reply, but turned his head away and wiped his eyes.

"What a stupid creature I am!" cried Elina; "to talk of things that make
you sad! Come, let us go to work; we have none too much time. I have the
key of our new lodgings; it's the door on the opposite side of the
landing; I'll go and open it."

While the girl went to open the door, Paul took down the bed, being
careful to make as little noise as possible; then he began to move the
furniture into the new lodgings.

Elina pointed out a little loft, which was reached from a small, square
room.

"That's my bedroom," she said. "It seems that I shan't have any too much
light up there. However, my aunt says that one doesn't need to see in
order to go to bed."

"Your aunt is far from kind to you, mademoiselle; and yet she cannot
have any fault to find with you."

"Oh! Monsieur Paul, aunts don't think as one's--friends do. They always
find some reason for scolding. Wait; there's a ladder to climb up to my
new room; let me fix it firmly."

"Let me do that, mademoiselle."

The young man put the ladder in place and went up into the loft.

"Do you think it will hold all my furniture?" Elina called to him.

"Why, it's not so very small. But if you set up your bed, mademoiselle,
there won't be room for your wardrobe and desk."

"In that case, we won't set it up; I don't care anything about it--it's
my aunt's. I'd much rather sleep on the floor, and keep my father's and
mother's furniture."

"But you won't be comfortable if you sleep on the floor."

"I shall be all right. I am not hard to suit, and I am perfectly content
if my wardrobe and desk can be got in."

Paul did as she desired; he placed on the floor, in one corner of the
loft, the two mattresses that were on her bed; then he went back and
brought the walnut wardrobe and the little desk, and succeeded in
finding room for them in the young girl's new apartment; she, meanwhile,
remained at the foot of the ladder, clapping her hands and jumping for
joy when she found that the loft would hold the two objects to which she
was so much attached.

"They are all right," said Paul; "but, mademoiselle, there's no room for
anything else, not even a chair."

"Oh! I don't care. I don't need any chair up there; I can sit on my bed.
I must come up and see how you have arranged it."

And the pretty creature ran nimbly up the ladder into the loft,
forgetting that Paul was still there. It is very imprudent for a young
lady to be in a loft with a young man. It is much more dangerous when
the young man is good-looking, and one is already inclined to like him.

But Elina did not think of all that. Luckily for her, Paul was honorable
and shy. But the most virtuous heart may prove recreant when it is very
much in love. Paul's beat violently when the girl climbed the ladder and
entered that poor chamber, where it was not possible to stand upright.
He had squatted in a corner, in order not to take up too much room, and
he dared not stir.

"Oh! how nicely it's arranged!" exclaimed Elina, looking about; "there's
room for everything; I shall have everything right at hand. Oh! how
pleased I am!"

And the girl, forgetting that the place was very low, raised her head to
thank Paul; but she struck the ceiling, then stumbled, and fell on the
mattress with a little shriek.

Instantly Paul was on his knees by her side; he examined her head
anxiously, saying:

"Mon Dieu! you must have hurt yourself terribly. I ought to have warned
you. I will go and get some water, some liniment."

But Elina was smiling again, and she detained the young man.

"It is nothing," she said. "It made me dizzy, that's all; and that has
gone now. I shall get out of it with a bump on my forehead. Dear me! I
must accustom myself to my loft."

"Do let me fetch you something, mademoiselle."

"Why, no, I don't need anything, I tell you. Give me your hand."

She took Paul's hand and put it to her forehead.

"Can you feel anything?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; there'll be a swelling there."

"The girls will all laugh at me. I've heard that by pressing hard on the
place you can prevent a swelling. Will you press on it, Monsieur Paul?"

"I am afraid of hurting you."

"No, no. Please press; don't be afraid."

The young man trembled in every limb as he pressed his hand against
Elina's smooth, white forehead; her glossy fair hair was disarranged,
and several curls fluttered about Paul's hand, increasing his emotion to
such an extent that his hand suddenly slipped and rested on the girl's
heart instead of on her forehead. Elina made no objection; she had
forgotten all about the blow she had dealt herself. The heart almost
always acts as a _derivative_, to use a medical term: when it is well
occupied, one is conscious of no pain elsewhere.

Paul no longer knew what he was doing.

"Forgive me for loving you, mademoiselle," he faltered, in a trembling
voice; "I know that it is very presumptuous of me; I am not worthy of
you, for I am only a poor messenger; but my love is stronger than my
reason, it will last all my life. This confession has escaped me in
spite of myself. Pray don't be angry; I will never mention it again!"

Elina did not seem at all offended; her cheeks were crimson, and she
kept her eyes on the floor, as she faltered in her turn:

"I am not angry. It isn't a crime to love a person. Mon Dieu! Monsieur
Paul, even before you told me--I don't know why, but I had thought--I
had guessed that you loved me, and--and--it made me happy. I don't
forbid you to mention it to me--far from it!"

"Ah! mademoiselle, how good you are! and how happy I should be,
if--if----"

He dared not say: "If you loved me, too." But his eyes finished the
sentence. Elina, who understood him as well as if he had said the words,
replied artlessly:

"I thought that you had guessed, too."

Paul put her hands to his lips, and covered them with kisses.

"Ah! I am permitted to know the most perfect happiness!" he cried; "I
envy no man on earth. To be loved by you--I dare not believe it! The
thought will increase my courage tenfold. I will work harder than ever,
so that I can save money; and if I could offer you a comfortable
existence; if I could save enough to have a little home of our own;
if---- But, no, it is impossible; I can never hope for anything of the
kind."

Paul's face became sad once more, and he looked away from Elina. But she
took his hand and pressed it softly, saying:

"Well, well! why are you so sad, all of a sudden? I feel so happy! Do
you think that I am ambitious, pray, and that I won't be content with
whatever you can offer me? It is very bad of you to think that."

"No, mademoiselle; it isn't money that I am thinking of. I am very sure
that you are like me, and that you don't care about that. But it is--it
is---- Oh! mademoiselle, I will tell you everything, for I do not want
to deceive you; and no matter what it costs me to make the confession,
you shall know what I am; then you will see that I am not worthy of your
love."

"Mon Dieu! what do you mean? You frighten me! Have you done anything
wrong?"

"No, it's not that. But you said just now that our positions were the
same, because we are both orphans. That is not true, mademoiselle; you
have lost your parents, but you did know them; you know who they were,
you remember your father's kisses. But I have no idea who my parents
are. They may be living, but I do not know whether they are or not. They
cast me out, spurned me from their arms. In a word, I am a wretched
foundling."

"A foundling?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; I was left at the door where all the poor children
are left whose parents cannot or, in some cases, do not choose to bring
them up. There was a paper on me, on which was written: _Paul de
Saint-Cloud._ Saint-Cloud is probably where I was born. And on my
forearm there was a little cross--which I still have, for it doesn't
wear out;--was that mark placed there so that I might be found and
identified some day? I hoped so for a long time. But now I have ceased
to hope, for I am more than twenty-three years old, and I have never
heard of my parents. During all the time I passed with Monsieur
Desroches,--an excellent man, who took me from the charitable asylum
when I was ten years old, and treated me like his own son,--he did all
that he could to obtain some information which would help me to find my
parents; but it all came to nothing; and when my benefactor saw me
weeping with grief, because I could not embrace my father or mother, he
would kiss me affectionately, and say: 'Don't grieve so, my boy; birth
is a game of chance; those who come into the world with a name and rank
and wealth all ready for them, often do not take the trouble to
cultivate talents and estimable qualities, because they deem themselves
sufficiently well equipped as they are; but he who begins his life
without any of those advantages is compelled to behave well in order to
obtain what he lacks. According to that, my boy, the advantage would
seem to be with him who comes into the world without anything.' With
such arguments, Monsieur Desroches comforted me and gave me courage. But
I am a poor foundling none the less, with no name, no family, to offer
you. That is what I felt bound to tell you, mademoiselle; for it is
wrong to deceive anyone. That is what makes me think that I shall never
be considered worthy to be your husband."

Elina had listened to the young messenger's story with the most profound
interest; her eyes were filled with tears when he finished, and she
held out her hand, saying with the impulsive frankness that comes from
the heart:

"Take my hand; I give it to you, and what you have told me will not
prevent me from loving you; far from it; and since my parents are dead,
it seems to me that I have the right to select a husband for myself."

Beside himself with joy, Paul seized the hand she offered him, and
covered it with kisses, repeating the most fervent oaths.

"Just see how things change their aspect!" cried the girl, in her
ingenuous delight; "this loft, which seemed such a dismal place to me at
first, seems very attractive now, and I am sure that I shall like it
very much; for I shall always remember that it was here that you first
told me that you loved me."

Paul was about to reply with renewed protestations, when they heard a
great burst of laughter close at hand. They stepped to the entrance to
the loft, and saw three young men in the small room below that opened on
the landing, standing at the foot of the ladder, clapping their hands,
shouting _bravo_, and laughing uproariously.

The new-comers were Albert, Célestin, and Mouillot, whom we left asleep
in Balivan's studio, and who, when they woke about six in the morning,
began by laughing at the idea of their being in that place. Then they
started to return to their respective abodes; but when they were on the
landing, Célestin remembered the pretty neighbor.

"By the way," he said, "what about the little neighbor overhead!
Parbleu! she must be at home still, and I won't go away without a look
at her."

"Nor I, either," added tall Mouillot. "I want to decide whether she's as
good-looking as Balivan claims.--Au revoir, Albert! Go on, if you're in
a hurry."

"No; I still have some time to spare, and I also am curious to see the
neighbor. I will go with you, messieurs."

"But how shall we get her to open the door?"

"That's a simple matter. We will knock, stamp heavily on the floor, and
say in a deep voice: 'The water carrier, mamzelle.'--The water carriers
always come early, and people open their doors for them, even when
they're only half dressed. She'll open for us."

And the young men went upstairs, leaving Varinet still asleep, with his
olive in his pocket.

When they reached the upper landing, they were surprised to find two
open doors.

"It seems that we shall not have to play water carrier," they said. "Can
it be that the pretty neighbor sleeps with her door open? That would
indicate the confidence of innocence--or just the opposite. Which door
shall we go in?"

"Let chance decide."

Chance led them into the small room below the loft. There their
attention was attracted by the fervent protestations of love repeated by
Paul and Elina, who did not hear them enter the room; for lovers, when
they are swearing to adore each other, never hear anything else.

Thereupon the young men made their comments aloud.

"I should say that we had found a nest!" said Mouillot.

"Love in a loft! a genre picture," added Albert.

"And to think that Balivan extolled his neighbor's virtue!" observed
Célestin. "I thought our artist was more sharp-witted than that; but it
seems that he doesn't know all the colors yet."

The outburst of laughter followed, and warned the lovers at last that
there was somebody close at hand.

Elina blushed to the whites of her eyes when she saw the young men; Paul
quivered with wrath, and would have rushed down the ladder, but Célestin
had just taken it away.

"Things seem to be progressing up there," said Mouillot; "we're
beginning our day well."

"On my word, she is charming!" said Albert; "Balivan didn't deceive us."

"True, so far as her face goes."

"Why have you come here, messieurs? what do you want?" demanded Paul;
"why do you presume to take away the ladder? Put it back at once!"

"Aha! the lover is losing his temper!" said Mouillot. "But, just
consider--suppose we were evil-minded? We have you both in a cage up
there--suppose we should go and tell the young lady's parents; what
would you say?"

"That there is no harm, messieurs, in going into a loft when one is
moving furniture there; and that is why I am here now with
mademoiselle."

"Ah! not bad! not bad! and it was part of the moving to kiss her, I
suppose; and to swear eternal love, young Lothario?"

"I kissed mademoiselle's hand only, monsieur. As to what I said to her,
that doesn't concern you; you had no right to listen."

"Hoity-toity! then you should lock the doors, imprudent children that
you are!"

"Why, God bless me! the lover is one of our messengers, Sans-Cravate's
mate!"

"Yes, that is so! it was he who did Tobie's errands yesterday. Ah! young
dressmaker! is it possible? you listen to a messenger? Why, you degrade
yourself, girl; your trade entitles you to look higher--especially with
such lovely eyes!"

"Treat mademoiselle with respect, messieurs!" exclaimed Paul; "or I'll
make you repent your insolence!"

"Do you, knave," retorted Célestin, "begin by holding your tongue; if
not, you'll be whipped for your impertinence."

"We shall not put back the ladder except on several conditions," said
Albert; "first, that the little dressmaker allow us to kiss her."

"I," said Mouillot, "demand that she measure me for a pair of drawers."

Elina made no reply; in her distress, she had taken refuge in the
farthest corner of the loft, where she tried to avoid the glances of the
young men. But Paul could not control his wrath; he jumped down into the
room below, at the risk of injuring himself, rushed at Célestin,
snatched the ladder from him with a powerful hand, and placed it against
the entrance to the loft.

"Now, let anyone dare to take it away, and he will have to settle with
me!"

The messenger had acted so rapidly and energetically that the young men
were speechless for a moment. Then Célestin walked toward Paul, saying:

"Leave this room instantly! Gentlemen like us do not care to soil our
hands with a fellow of your stamp; but if I had a cane, I'd break it
over your shoulders."

Paul took his stand in front of Célestin and looked him straight in the
eye, as he rejoined:

"Men like me, messengers though we are, are far above men of your stamp,
who know no better than to insult an honest girl. If you do deem
yourself my superior in the street, because I stand there to do your
errands, here, you are far below the poor man of the people; for he
bears himself with honor, while your conduct is that of a scoundrel."

"Ah! this is too much!--Well, messieurs, won't you help me to thrash
this wretch?"

Albert hesitated; one would have said that Paul's resolute bearing had
made an impression on him, and that in his heart he felt that the young
man was in the right. But Mouillot did not choose to disregard
Célestin's appeal; he ran to the ladder, and Célestin tried to drag Paul
from his position by pulling his arm; but the messenger pushed him away
so violently that he stumbled over his friend Mouillot. However, they
were preparing to renew their attack, when they heard a succession of
piercing shrieks; and little Elina, seeing that Paul was going to fight,
added her voice to the tumult, calling for help.

"Robbers! robbers!" a voice cried from the next apartment.

"Mon Dieu! it's my aunt who is being robbed!" said Elina. "Do go and
see, Monsieur Paul!"

Paul was unwilling to move from the foot of the ladder and leave Elina
exposed to the enterprises of the young men. But the appearance of an
old woman, clad in nothing but a chemise and a camisole, with an old
handkerchief, twisted into the shape of a turban, on her head, changed
the whole aspect of affairs; it was Elina's aunt, who, regardless of the
incompleteness of her costume, ran wildly about the room, shrieking:

"Robbers! there's a thief in my room! I saw him standing by my bed when
I woke up! Arrest him, messieurs, I beg you! he's there still. I put
myself under your protection."

And Madame Vardeine would have rushed into the arms of the young men;
but they were cruel enough to shrink from the embraces of that lady in
chemise and camisole, who at that moment concealed none of her charms.

Meanwhile, attracted by the shrieks of the old woman and the girl, the
concierge had arrived upon the scene, carrying his broom in one hand and