Part 16

Dupont was on the rack; if he had dared, he would have struck his friend Jolibois, to make him relax his hold, at the risk of knocking him downstairs. He tried to release his arm, muttering:

"You have been dining, Jolibois, and dining very well, I should judge. But madame and I have not dined, and we would like to join our friends, who are waiting for us upstairs. I'll call on you; but let me go now, Jolibois; I promise you that I'll call to see you.--Come, my dear madame, they are waiting for us."

With another jerk, Dupont succeeded in shaking off his persecutor. He hurried Georgette upstairs, leaving his friend Jolibois, who looked after them, crying:

"Ah! you rascal! you think you can fool me! But I can guess--I see what's up! You're a rascal, Dupont! But don't be afraid: I won't tell your wife."

Georgette did not say a word; she took pity on her escort's pitiable state. They reached the landing on the first floor. Dupont recognized his waiter and said to him:

"Waiter, we would like a table in one of the public rooms."

"There isn't one, monsieur; they're all taken. It's very hard to get one on Sunday, unless you come much earlier than this. But I happen to have a private room, just vacated; I will give you that."

Dupont glanced at Georgette, who replied:

"We wish to dine in a public room. Let us take a turn on the boulevard; we will come back in a little while, and probably we shall find a table then."

"As you please, my dear friend," replied Dupont, who dared not insist, because the meeting with his friend Jolibois had made him very sheepish; but as they went away he made a sign to the waiter.

They returned to the boulevard; it was a dull, damp day, and there was some mud on the pavement; but, as it was a Sunday, there was a great throng on the boulevards, for there are multitudes of people in Paris who are determined to walk out on Sunday, whatever the weather, and who, when the rain begins to fall in torrents, vanish only to reappear a moment later, armed with umbrellas, and stroll along, looking in the shop windows, as if the sun were shining.

Dupont offered Georgette his arm; he did not know how to begin the conversation, being sadly embarrassed. The girl enjoyed his confusion for some minutes, then began:

"Well, Monsieur l'Américain from Brives-la-Gaillarde, has your meeting with your friend Jolibois made you dumb? Really, that would be a pity, you say such pretty things sometimes!"

Dupont tried to recover his self-possession, and replied:

"My charming neighbor, I confess that that meeting was not very agreeable to me!"

"Oh! I believe you there!"

"In the first place, Jolibois was drunk; it was easy enough to see that he'd been drinking too much, for he didn't know what he was saying. He recognized me--and then he took me for somebody else."

Georgette stopped, looked her escort squarely in the face, and said in a very sharp tone:

"Monsieur Dupont, do you take me for a fool?"

"I, mademoiselle? God forbid! On the contrary, I have every reason to know that you have a very keen intellect, that you reason perfectly, and that you are also exceedingly shrewd and satirical."

"In that case, monsieur, don't try to go on with the lies you have told me, in which, by the way, I never placed much faith: for you are much more like a Limousin than an American. You were never an American. You came to Paris from Brives-la-Gaillarde, as your friend Jolibois has just told you. But what I am least able to forgive is your passing yourself off as a widower while your wife is still living! Fie, monsieur! to deny your wife is a shameful thing!"

Dupont saw that he must abandon falsehood.

"Mademoiselle," he faltered. "Well, yes--it is true--I admit it. But I was so anxious to make your acquaintance! And if I had told you I was married, you wouldn't have consented to receive me."

"Why not? On the contrary, it would have given me more confidence in you. I would have said: 'Here's a man who doesn't try to deceive me.'--But to pretend to be a widower--to attempt to play the bachelor here, while your poor wife is lamenting your absence, no doubt!"

"Oh, no! you may be quite easy in your mind as to that! My wife doesn't lament my absence in the least. She was one of the first to urge me to come to Paris, and to come without her."

"And to pretend to be a bachelor?"

"I don't say that she went so far as that; but when a woman allows her husband to travel without her, that means that she is willing he should play the bachelor; for, after all, my dear little neighbor, men aren't nuns, and you understand----"

"Enough, monsieur, enough! not another word on that subject!"

"Very good; I ask nothing better.--But I think I felt a drop of rain."

"Yes, it's raining. Let's go back to the restaurant; there will probably be room now."

They returned to Bonvalet's, where the waiter made the same reply:

"Everything's taken in the public room; but I happen to have a private room; I advise you to take it quick, or somebody else will get possession."

Dupont looked at Georgette, who replied:

"All right! let's take the private room, as we can't do anything else."

Our gallant was overjoyed. The waiter escorted them into a warm, comfortable, well-closed room, where a table was already laid for two.

"Really, one would think that they expected us!" said Georgette, removing her bonnet and shawl.

"Guests are always expected at a restaurant."

"Of course; but these two covers all laid!"

"It is probably a room in which they never put more than two."

"No matter. Give your order quickly, monsieur, for I am awfully hungry."

"I would like to know what you prefer."

"Oh! I like everything."

"And there is nothing that I don't like; so the matter can be easily arranged."

Dupont ordered a choice, toothsome dinner, with a great variety of wines. He attempted to sit on a sofa beside Georgette; but she compelled him to sit opposite her, on the other side of the table.

"You would be in my way at dinner," she said; "and I don't like to be hampered when I am eating."

"I must not annoy her," said Dupont to himself. "I must go softly, for I have much to be forgiven for. Let's wait till the generous wines arrive."

Georgette did honor to the dinner; but she drank very little, although her companion did his utmost to induce her to, crying, as he filled her glass with beaune première:

"Above all things, don't put water in this wine; it would be downright murder! It's the most delicious beaune there is."

"That makes absolutely no difference to me," replied the girl. "I never drink pure wine. I prefer it with water."

"That's all right with common wines. But this, which costs four francs a bottle--it's sacrilege to put water in it!"

"In that case, my dear Monsieur Dupont, you shouldn't have ordered anything but common wines; then you wouldn't have exposed me to the risk of committing crimes."

Dupont was vexed; but, to compensate himself for his disappointment, he was very careful to drink his own beaune pure, and he resorted to it frequently, to keep up his courage and his gayety. He was beginning to risk an affectionate word or two, when Georgette abruptly interposed, saying:

"Is madame your wife pretty?"

Dupont frowned, as he replied:

"Quite--but not so well built as you--far from it! Ah! if she had your enchanting figure!"

"Are her eyes black or blue?"

"They are--they are green, like a cat's."

"Oh! what a misfortune! You say that your wife has eyes like a cat's?"

"What do I care?--And your mouth is so lovely! Your smile charms me beyond words!"

"And her teeth--are they fine?"

"Whose teeth?"

"Your wife's."

"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle, don't you propose to talk about anything but my wife? I will confess that I didn't ask you to dine with me in order to hear you talk about her."

"That may be; but the subject is very interesting to me."

"Must I tell you again, my lovely Georgette, that in Paris I have no wife, that I am a bachelor again?"

"True; I know perfectly well that you would like to make people think so. But, after all, my dear Monsieur Dupont, you may be quite sure of one thing, and that is that it's a matter of indifference to me whether you are married or single."

Dupont wondered how he ought to take that. He concluded to look upon it as an omen favorable to his love, and filled his neighbor's glass with grenache, saying:

"This is a lady's wine, very sweet, which won't stand water. Taste it, I beg you."

Georgette took one swallow of grenache, then put her glass on the table.

"I don't like sweetened wines," she said.

"Sapristi! what in heaven's name does she like?" thought Dupont; and to console himself, he emptied his own glass at a draught.

But by dint of trying to maintain his aplomb, he became as red as his friend Jolibois; and when the champagne was brought, he left his chair and proposed to Georgette to dance the polka with him. She laughed in his face and sent him back to his seat. He filled a glass with champagne and offered it to the girl.

"Don't you like champagne either?" he asked.

"Oh, no! it has an effervescence, a sparkle, that arouses---- Does your wife like it?"

Dupont brought his fist down on the table, drank a glass of champagne, and cried:

"Upon my word, you're laughing at me! But you shall pay me for it! That calls for revenge, and I propose to avenge myself by kissing you."

As he spoke, he rose and rushed toward Georgette, and tried to put his arms about her. But she checked him with a firm hand.

"None of this nonsense, Monsieur Dupont," she said, "or I shall be seriously angry."

"What, dear angel! do you really mean to refuse me this?"

"I shall refuse you everything; you may be sure of that."

"Oho! why, then you have been laughing at me, making a fool of me!"

"In what way have I made a fool of you, monsieur?"

"In what way? Why, in every way! When a woman accepts a man's attentions, when she consents to receive presents from him,--a shawl, a bonnet, and heaven knows what!--she doesn't send him about his business afterward, do you understand, mademoiselle?"

"I understand, monsieur, that you are as foolish as you are impertinent. Did I ever give you the slightest hope that I would be your mistress? You taunt me for accepting a few paltry presents. I have made you some much more valuable ones, by consenting to receive your visits, to go to walk and to the theatre with you, to put my arm in yours. Do you count all that as nothing, monsieur?"

"I don't say that. But you consented to dine with me in a private room; and when a woman goes to a private dining-room with a gentleman--it isn't for the purpose of being cruel. Everybody knows that."

"Oh! I could well afford to dine tête-à-tête with you, monsieur, for you have never been at all dangerous to me."

"Then why have you always refused until to-day?"

"Because I didn't choose to give you hopes that could not be realized."

"And why did you accept to-day?"

"Because it bored me to walk about in the rain with you. But, never fear, monsieur, I shall not be caught again."

Dupont was terribly put out; but self-esteem, the wine he had drunk, and the mocking glances of the girl, who seemed to defy him--all these excited him beyond measure, and he determined to face even Mademoiselle Georgette's wrath. He said to himself that he was nothing but a simpleton, that the girl was laughing at him, that he would never have so favorable an opportunity again, and that he would be a fool not to take advantage of it. All these reflections passed through his mind like a flash of lightning; having failed in his attempt to kiss his intended victim, he ventured to attack her in a different fashion. Instantly he received a smart blow as the reward of his audacity.

"Leave me, monsieur," said Georgette, rising from her seat; "you are an insolent fellow, and I will not remain with you another minute."

"Oh! I am very sorry, my lovely neighbor, but I will not leave you," replied Dupont, who had lost his head completely; and he succeeded in seizing the short striped petticoat that Georgette had on. "No, no; I have got hold of that charming little skirt which is so becoming to you, and which I have gazed at and admired so often! I've got it, and I won't let it go."

"All right! then keep it, monsieur, for it's all you will ever have of mine!"

As she spoke, Georgette found a way to let the skirt fall at her feet. She jumped over it, ran to where her shawl and bonnet were hanging, and left the room before Dupont, who still held the striped skirt in his hand, had recovered from his astonishment.

VII

THE SECOND PETTICOAT

On the day following that dinner, Mademoiselle Georgette left her modest little chamber on Rue de Seine very early in the morning; for she had taken care to give notice in the middle of the quarter.

This time she hired lodgings in the Marais, on Boulevard Beaumarchais, where rows of handsome houses, solidly constructed, now replace the paths, shaded by secular trees, which used often to serve as places of assignation for lovelorn couples.

The young embroiderer exchanged her attic room for a small apartment, still very modest, but indicating a less precarious financial condition. The furniture, too, was more pretentious; it was not that of a _petite-maîtresse_, but it was no longer that of a grisette.

Mademoiselle Georgette changed her business also; she abandoned embroidery to become a shirtmaker; and as she sewed as well as she embroidered, she did not lack work.

Lastly, the short fustian skirt gave place to a petticoat of black silk, which fell gracefully over her alluring figure and reached only halfway to her ankle, so that it disclosed the lower part of a very shapely leg and the beginning of a plump calf.

In her own room, the pretty shirtmaker affected the costume that she wore in the attic on Rue de Seine, a tight-fitting white jacket, and the short skirt that was so becoming to her. Add to these, spotlessly clean white stockings, and a tiny foot neatly shod, and she was quite certain to turn the heads of all who saw her in that charming négligé.

Georgette lived now at the rear of a courtyard; but that courtyard was spacious, airy, and well kept; it was square in shape, and the tenants of the building in front looked on the boulevard and on the courtyard, while those in the building at the rear had the latter view only; and when they sat at their windows, they could see nothing but one another.

Georgette occupied two small rooms on the entresol. But above her was an elderly female annuitant, with her servant; their combined ages exceeded a century. On the next floor above, a family of honest bourgeois, who were always in bed at half-past ten. On the upper floor, a lady who gave lessons on the piano. In the building at her right lived an unmarried government clerk, who had a maid of all work. Above him, a lady of uncertain age, who had once been very pretty, and was still a great coquette; who covered her face with rice powder, cold cream, and red, blue, and black paint; who regretted the _mouches_ with which ladies used to spot their faces, but who had made, with the aid of a red-hot pin, two beauty spots--one on the left cheek, the other on a spot which is not seen. But, you will say, if it is not seen, why make the beauty spot there? Ah! you are too inquisitive! Pray, do not those persons who are gifted with second-sight see everything, even the most carefully hidden things? The second beauty spot was for them; magnetism is an invaluable science.

Above this lady, whose name was Madame Picotée, were two young men who devoted themselves to literature, which did not prevent them from ogling their neighbors, when they were attractive.

In the building at the left, on the first floor, was a dressmaker's establishment; on the second, a painter of miniatures; on the third, a photographer. In all the buildings, the rooms under the eaves were reserved for servants.

The building that looked on the boulevard contained the handsomest apartments, and, consequently, the most important tenants of the house.

On the first floor was a very rich gentleman with two servants: a maid and a valet. On the second, a young couple; the husband was engaged in business, the wife in coquetry; she was pretty and a flirt, he was ugly and a rake; they had a soubrette with a very wide-awake air, and a cook who drank too much.

On the third floor was a young man who had just received his degree as a physician and who lacked nothing but patients; he looked for them and solicited them everywhere; he would have made some, if it had been possible, but only for the pleasure of taking care of them and the glory of curing them.

After Mademoiselle Georgette took up her abode in the entresol at the rear of the courtyard, all eyes were fastened upon her, and the feminine glances were foremost in seeking to scrutinize and pass judgment on the new-comer; for women are more curious than men--that is a recognized fact.

It was easy to obtain a sight of the latest arrival; it was April; the weather was very fine, the sun deigned to show his face frequently; and Mademoiselle Georgette, who was very glad to admit him to her little entresol, left her windows open almost all day, and, as her custom was, sat at her window working. You know what her costume was: the white jacket fitting close to her figure, and the skirt clinging about her hips.

So that they could look at her and examine her at their ease; and as she was very attractive, very alluring in her simple costume, the women did not fail to discover that it was very unseemly, and that it was most unbecoming to her. They decided that the little shirtmaker did not know how to dress, and that she had no other beauty than her youth.

The lady who painted her cheeks even went so far as to say that the girl's skirt was indecent, because it outlined her figure too plainly. To be sure, the lady in question no longer had any figure that could possibly be outlined by her garments; but, on the other hand, she was very fond of going to the Circus, where men perform daring feats on horseback, and she had never found any fault with the exceedingly tight nether garments worn by most of the riders.

The men who lived in the house disagreed entirely with the opinion of the ladies. To a man, they voted the girl most attractive and exceedingly well built; and they rivalled one another in passing encomiums upon the grace with which she wore her modest costume. The short black petticoat was declared to be enchanting; and from the first to the topmost floor, the male tenants said to one another:

"Have you seen the girl on the entresol, with her little short skirt?"

"Yes, she's very piquant, is that young woman; she has such a well-set-up figure, and such well-rounded hips! She reminds me of the famous Spanish dancer, Camera Petra."

"Yes, yes, there's a resemblance in her skirt. I saw her in the yard, drawing water at the pump."

"Still in her simple négligé?"

"Yes. Ah! messieurs, if you could have seen her pump! She was so graceful, and her skirt followed her motions so perfectly! It was enough to drive a man mad!"

"She has a very pretty leg too, and a tiny foot."

"She's a mighty pretty girl! I must try to make a conquest of her."

"And I."

"And I."

"And I," said the photographer to himself; "I'll do it quicker than any of 'em, as I'll go to her and suggest taking her picture on a card; for all these young girls are delighted to have their picture."

VIII

A GENTLEMAN WHO DID NOT RUIN HIMSELF FOR WOMEN

There was one man in the house who said nothing; to be sure, he was too lofty a personage to gossip with his neighbors! It was the man who occupied the first-floor suite in the building on the boulevard. His name was Monsieur de Mardeille; was he of noble birth, or was he not? that is of little consequence to us; but this much is certain: he had about twenty-five thousand francs a year and he never spent the whole of his income.

Monsieur de Mardeille was at this time about fifty years of age, but he looked hardly forty-four. He had been a very comely person, and was still far from ill-looking. He was of commanding stature, well built, and had had the good fortune not to grow stout as he grew older; thus he was still capable of making conquests, his physical advantages being reinforced by those due to the possession of wealth. Always dressed in the height of fashion, but wise enough to avoid those extreme styles which, while they are endurable in a young man, are ridiculous in middle age, Monsieur de Mardeille had a distinguished bearing and the manners of the best society; and lastly, while he was no eagle, he had that social cleverness which often consists only in a good memory, and is infinitely more common than natural cleverness. With all the rest, he was exceedingly presumptuous, and believed himself to be very shrewd.

It is almost superfluous to say that Monsieur de Mardeille took the greatest care of his health, for he was most solicitous to retain his good looks, and, consequently, his youth; which last is a decidedly difficult thing to do, as we grow older every day. But still, so long as a man has a youthful look he tries to persuade himself that he is really young; to be sure, there is always something in our inmost being that reminds us how old we are; but so long as that something does not let itself be seen, we are entitled to forget it.

Monsieur de Mardeille, then, took the greatest care of his person; he took medicinal baths twice a week; he took all the laxatives that keep the complexion fresh; he indulged in no excess, either at the table or in love. In fact, as he was a man who thought of nothing but himself, he had never allowed himself to undergo the slightest annoyance because of a woman, for egotists never love. Moreover, this gentleman prided himself upon never having spent money on a mistress. We do not call it spending money when we take a lady to dine at a restaurant, or to the play, or to the Bois in a calèche; for, in such cases, as we have our share of the pleasure, and as we gratify our vanity by parading our conquest, the money is spent for our own behoof. So that Monsieur de Mardeille, having thus far succeeded in having _bonnes fortunes_ that cost him nothing, laughed at his friends, most of whom ruined themselves, or at least ran into debt, to satisfy the whims of the fair ones for whom they sighed.

"What the devil!" he would say, looking at himself in a mirror; "do as I do, messieurs! No woman ever resisted me, and yet I never gave them diamonds or cashmere shawls--still less, money, egad! And I have always taken good care not to pay their milliner's bills; whenever it has happened that a lady who had been kind to me has taken it into her head to send one of her purveyors to me with a little note begging me to help her out of a scrape by paying his bill, I have always begun by turning the man out of doors; and then I have ceased visiting my fair one, to whom I have written: 'I found it impossible to accommodate you, and I dare not see you again.'--Then my mistress was certain to come running after me, overwhelming me with tokens of affection, and crying: 'Can it be that you thought that I loved you from selfish motives? Why, it is you, you alone, whom I love! Oh! come back, come back!'--I have generally let them pull my ear for a while, and then gone back, amid transports of love on their part. For you may be perfectly sure, messieurs, that a woman will never love a man more because he is very gallant and very generous with her. She will take more pains about deceiving him, that's all; for she will hate to lose his gifts and his bounty; but what pleasure is there in possessing a woman who clings to you only from motives of self-interest?"