Part 2

A number of people had gathered in front of the door, to watch the bridal couple enter. Inquisitive folk abound in Paris; perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they abound everywhere. Why this general desire to see a bride, when she has not as yet performed all the duties which that title devolves upon her? Is it simply to see whether she is pretty, and to read upon her features whether or not she is looking forward joyfully to becoming a wife? This is a simple question that we ask, but we will not undertake to answer it.

Among the persons who had halted there, some in passing, others coming from the omnibus office, others on the way there, was a tall man, in the neighborhood of forty-five years, standing very straight, even bending back a little from the hips, with head erect, nose in air, and his hat on one side, in true roistering style.

This person, whose chestnut hair was beginning to be sprinkled with gray, had very irregular features. His eyes were small and deep-set, of a pale green shade, but full of fire and animation. His nose was crooked, slightly turned up, and might almost have been called flat. His mouth was large, but his teeth were fine, and not one was missing; so that his smile was not unattractive, especially as he was not over lavish of it. His chin retreated slightly, his cheek-bones, as a contrast, were exceedingly prominent; his complexion was high-colored and blotched, although he was thin both in body and face. With this unpromising exterior, my gentleman seemed none the less to consider himself an Apollo. He wore bushy mutton-chop whiskers, which almost met in the middle of his chin, leaving between them only a very narrow space, cleanly shaven, which he often caressed with affection, and which he called his dimple. His manners denoted no less self-assurance than familiarity with the world; and they would even have borne some traces of refinement, had he not adopted a sort of mincing gait not unlike that of a drum-major; but, instead of a great baton, this gentleman had a slender switch, curved at the top, which seemed to have been painted and gilded long before, but had lost a large part of its decoration. It was a very pliable switch, with which he constantly tapped his trousers-legs.

His costume did not indicate the dandy, although its wearer affected the manners of one. His linen trousers, of a very large check, seemed to have been cut from the skirt of some concierge. His waistcoat was also of a check pattern, but its colors did not harmonize at all with those of the trousers; nothing was wanting except the plaid to give him altogether the aspect of a Scotch Highlander; but, instead of the plaid, he wore a nut-brown frock-coat, with ample skirts, which he often left unbuttoned the better to display his slender figure, and in which he sometimes encased himself hermetically, as if it were a cloak. It is needless to say that this costume was entirely lacking in freshness.

This personage, who had a habit of speaking always in a very loud tone, so that everybody could hear what he said and presumably be struck with admiration by his wit,--a method of attracting attention which enables you to divine instantly the sort of man with whom you have to do--this personage pushed and jostled some of the loiterers, exclaiming:

"What's all this? what's all this? a wedding party, eh? Mon Dieu! is a wedding party such a very strange thing that everybody must stop and push and crowd, to see the couple? Triple idiots of Parisians! On my word, one would think they had never seen such a thing before!"

"What's that! what makes you push me so hard to get my place, if there's nothing to look at?" said a youngster in a blouse, whom the other had pushed away with some violence.

"Who is it that presumes to speak to me? God forgive me! I believe that this little turnspit dares to complain! Look out that I don't teach you whom you are talking to!"

"In the first place, I ain't a turnspit; do you hear, you long flag-pole?"

That epithet caused the gentleman in the Scotch nether garments to quiver with rage; he threw himself back and raised his cane, and, in the course of that evolution, trod on the feet of an old woman who stood behind him leading a small dog, which was doing its best to avoid being present at the arrival of the wedding party.

"Ah! monsieur, take care, for heaven's sake! you're treading on me. A little more, and you'd have crushed Abdallah!"

"Very sorry, madame; but I have no eyes in my back. Ah! the rascal who had the effrontery to reply to me has fled. I will not chase him, because he's only a child; if he had been a man, he'd have felt my switch on his shoulders before this."

"Monsieur, do take care; Abdallah is under your feet!"

"What's that! what, in God's name, is this Abdallah of yours, madame?"

"My dear little King Charles.--Come here, come, you runaway!"

"That beast a King Charles? He's a very ugly water-spaniel, and I wouldn't give two sous for him. How stupid some people are with their dogs! Ah! there's the bride, no doubt.--Peste! how lightly we jump down! Very good! I have my cue. She'll wear the breeches; I can see that at a glance."

A young woman, in the traditional bridal costume, had, in fact, alighted from one of the carriages; she did not wait for the arm which a stout, chubby-faced papa, already perspiring profusely, who, however, was not one of the groomsmen, was preparing to offer her.

The bride was apparently about twenty years of age; she was short and plump, with light hair, a white skin, and a rosy complexion; she was not a beauty, but her face was piquant and attractive, with a pleasant smile of the sort that almost always denotes a quick wit; but smiles do not invariably fulfil their promises.

The stout papa, who had come forward too late to assist the bride to alight from her carriage, was also too late for another lady who followed her; and he missed a third likewise, because he was very busily occupied in wiping the perspiration from his brow.

The gentleman with the check trousers, having turned his eyes upon the stout man, rushed toward the carriage, exclaiming:

"Pardieu! I am not mistaken, it's my good Blanquette! Dear Monsieur Blanquette! Hola, there! I say, Pere Blanquette! Hola! is it possible that you don't know your friends? Just turn your eyes this way!"

The stout papa, being thus noisily addressed, ceased to wipe his brow, and, looking in the direction of the crowd, speedily distinguished the person who had hailed him. Thereupon his face assumed an expression which denoted annoyance rather than pleasure, and he answered his interlocutor's greetings with cold and constrained courtesy.

"Oh! good-day, Monsieur Cherami--glad to see you."

"So you're of the wedding party, Papa Blanquette?--All in full dress, eh? You were in the same carriage with the bride."

"Well, it would be a strange thing if I wasn't of the party, when it's my nephew who's being married!"

"Your nephew? Oho! then I understand; I have my cue. What! that dear little Adolphe--who never wanted to do anything--who didn't take to anything, as I remember."

"But he has taken to marriage very readily.--Besides, Adolphe is a big fellow now."

"What! it is your nephew whose wedding you are celebrating, and I did not know it? Such an old friend as I am, too--for you know, Papa Blanquette, how devoted I am to you! You have seen me in an emergency; and you let me know nothing about it, and I am not invited to the wedding! Do you know, Monsieur Blanquette, that I might justly be offended by such actions, if I were sensitive? But I am not--I leave that foible to idiots."

For some moments, the stout man had been listening with but one ear to the individual whose name we now know. The bridegroom's uncle was watching the carriages, and, another one having taken the place of that from which the bride had alighted, he was determined not to be behindhand again in offering his hand to the ladies; so he hurried to the door, leaving Monsieur Cherami still talking, and confined himself to an inclination of the head as he muttered:

"Excuse me, monsieur; but I have no time; there are some ladies whom I must assist--I cannot talk any longer."

Monsieur Cherami compressed his lips, frowned, and shrugged his shoulders, saying:

"Ah! this is your way of being polite, is it, you old numskull! He puts on airs because he's made a little money in Elbeuf broadcloth; as if that were such a wonderful thing! And to think that I have sent him more than fifty customers,--my tailor, among others!--and he acts as if he hardly knew me! All because he has money! a lot of merit in that! for who hasn't money now? It has become so common that persons of distinction don't want it."

"In that case, I fancy that tall, lanky fellow must be very distinguished!" whispered Mademoiselle Laurette to her friend; for the two girls had left the omnibus office to see the wedding party, and they were near enough to Monsieur Cherami to hear what he said. That was an easy matter, by the way, even at a distance, for our friend talked as _Mangin_ does when he is describing his drawings in public.

Meanwhile, the four wedding carriages had discharged their freights, who had entered the restaurant; then the carriages drove away, and the bystanders dispersed, except those who had business at the omnibus office.

V

THE CAPUCINE FAMILY

Monsieur Cherami remained on the square, staring at the porte cochere of the restaurant, and tapping his legs with his switch, with a nervous, jerky movement; he seemed undecided as to the course he had better pursue, and muttered, quite loud enough, however, to be overheard:

"I don't know what restrains me; I am tempted to join that wedding party; I have a perfect right to force myself on that crowd. If I were dressed, I'd do it. On my word of honor, I'd do it! not that I care so much for the banquet; I know what a feast is; I've had a hand in a few of them in my time, God knows! and some that this one can't hold a candle to. Sapristi! what is this that I feel against my legs?"

"Don't move, monsieur, I beg you! Abdallah's string has got tangled round your legs; I'll untwist it."

"Corbleu! madame, that's a most insufferable dog of yours! When you're leading a dog, you shouldn't give him so much string."

The old woman, having succeeded in disentangling her spaniel from our friend's legs, concluded to take Abdallah in her arms, then went away, glaring fiercely at all those in her neighborhood.

But Monsieur Cherami, being rid of the dog, turned about and spied the stout woman and the two small boys, who were still awaiting an opportunity to go to Belleville. Thereupon he exclaimed anew, saluting profusely, and shouting so loud that he attracted the attention of everybody within hearing:

"God bless me! do I see Madame Capucine? What a fortunate meeting! I didn't expect such good fortune. What! you have been here all the time, madame, and I did not see you!"

"Yes, Monsieur Cherami; here I am, and here I've been a long, long time, alas! I'm getting pretty impatient, I tell you; think of having to wait an hour for seats in an omnibus!"

"Don't speak of it; it's intolerable! That's the reason I always walk, myself; I can't make up my mind to wait. Ah! there are the two dear boys, Narcisse and Aristoloche; they improve every day--they'll be superb men--they're the living portraits of their mother!"

A smile, to which she strove to give an expression of modesty, played about Madame Capucine's lips, as she replied affectedly:

"Oh! there's a look of the father, too!"

"Do you think so? No, I can't see it; Capucine isn't a handsome man; an insignificant face; while his wife---- Ah! the rascal showed taste in his choice, on my word! But I don't understand how you ever made up your mind to marry him; if I were a woman, I'd never have done it; it's Venus and Vulcan over again."

"Oh! you always exaggerate, Monsieur Cherami; to hear you talk, one would think my husband was hunchbacked."

"If he isn't, he ought to have been."

"What! what do you mean by that?"

"Sh! I know what I mean. Ah! if Capucine wasn't a friend of mine!"

"Adelaide! Adelaide! I think that's a green 'bus coming; come here, quick!"

The servant left the office, with her basket. Monsieur Cherami greeted her with an affable bow, which she barely acknowledged, muttering:

"Bah! there goes the rest of our money! I wonder if that man's coming to dine with us? If he is, there'll never be enough to eat."

"Are you going into the country, Madame Capucine?"

"Yes, monsieur; we're going to Romainville."

"Have you bought a summer house, a villa, in that neighborhood?"

"No, monsieur; my Aunt Duponceau has a little place there, and we're going to pass Sunday with her."

"You begin the day before, I see."

"She made me promise to come Saturday with the children. Capucine will join us to-morrow."

"Ah! he isn't with you?"

"It wasn't possible; we can't all leave at once, on account of the business; it's stretching a point for me to go away with my servant."

"But you have your clerk?"

"Monsieur Ballot? Oh! yes, he's still with us; we're very lucky to have him--a very intelligent fellow, and full of ideas."

Monsieur Cherami smiled maliciously, as he replied:

"Yes, yes, I saw at once that he attended to your business very well. I'm sure that you'll push that young man ahead."

"Oh! he'll push himself all right. He's coming to Romainville to-morrow with my husband."

"The party'll be complete, then; but, meanwhile, you are without an escort to give you his arm, to look out for you."

"There is no danger on this little trip."

"A lovely woman is always in danger. All the men are tempted to carry her off. They don't always yield to the temptation, but they feel it, I promise you. Pardieu! I have my cue--a charming plan suggests itself to my mind: suppose I go with you to Romainville? Your Aunt Duponceau won't be sorry to see me, I'm sure. Indeed, I believe she urged me one day to go to see her in the country--yes, she certainly did. What do you think of that plan, lovely creature?"

Madame Capucine, having carefully scrutinized her friend's costume, seemed not at all anxious to take with her to the country a cavalier whose attire would not do her honor; and so, instead of answering his question, she observed:

"By the way, Monsieur Cherami, my husband told me, if I should happen to meet you, to remind you of that little bill--you know, eh? It's for some flannel vests, and it's been running a long while. You promised to pay it; I believe it's about a hundred and thirty francs."

Monsieur Cherami made a wry face, and struck his hat with his hand, muttering:

"Oh! madame, I know very well that I owe you a small account, a trifle, a mere nothing; but I have had much more important matters than that to think about."

"It's been running at least three years."

"What if it were twenty years! it's a trifle, none the less."

"Madame, madame! they're calling our numbers; there are some seats."

"Ah! mon Dieu! I must go. Come, Aristoloche; come, I say. Bonjour! Monsieur Cherami; think of us when you have time. Mon Dieu! I don't say it to hurry you, you know. Here I am, conductor."

Madame Capucine and her boys ran after the servant, and soon all four were in the omnibus.

"There are two more seats, mesdemoiselles," said the clerk to the two grisettes, who also had numbers for Belleville; but Mademoiselle Laurette shook her head.

"Thanks," she replied; "we'll give up our chance; we'll wait for the next; I don't travel with fish. In a boat, it's all right; but in a carriage it scents you up too much."

As for Monsieur Cherami, he had hardly responded to Madame Capucine's farewell; he looked after her with a disdainful air, saying:

"What a beast that haberdasher is! to talk to me about the balance of an account, in the street, in broad daylight, when I am kind enough to pay her compliments and to call her two little brats pretty! Go and sell your cotton nightcaps, you Hottentot Venus! for that woman strikes me as a caricature of Venus. Fine stuff her flannel vests are made of; I've only worn them three years, and they're torn already! I see plainly enough why you don't care to have me go to Aunt Duponceau's--that might interfere with your little tete-a-tetes with your clerk Ballot. Oh! poor Capucine! when I told that huge woman that her husband ought to be hunchbacked, she knew what I meant. However, I'd be glad to know where I shall dine to-day; indeed, to express my meaning more frankly, for I can afford to be frank with myself, I would like to know if I shall dine at all to-day."

VI

MONSIEUR CHERAMI

It is a very sad thing to have reached the point where one wonders whether one will have any dinner. And yet there are every day in Paris people who find themselves in that predicament; but it is comforting to know that such people generally end by dining; some very meagrely, to be sure, others moderately well, and others very well indeed and as if they were still prosperous. Those who succeed in dining well generally accomplish that end by some stratagem, by some new exertion of the imagination, which, however, must well-nigh have exhausted its ingenuity. What seems to me most surprising is that they dine gayly, with an excellent appetite, and with no concern for the morrow. One becomes accustomed to everything, they say; if that is philosophy, I do not envy the philosophers.

Especially when one has fallen into adversity by his own fault, his misconduct, his dissipated life, it would seem that adversity must be most painful, most bitter, most difficult to endure, and that shame must be his constant companion.

Those who are really victims of the injustice of fate, or of the stupidity of their contemporaries, can, at all events, hold their heads erect and refrain from blushing because of their poverty. Such were Homer, who was not appreciated during his life; Plautus, who was reduced to the necessity of turning a potter's wheel; Xylander, who sold his work on Dion Cassius to obtain a crust of bread; Lelio Girardi, author of a curious history of the Greek and Latin poets, who was reduced to a similar extremity; Usserius, too, a learned chronologist; Cornelius Agrippa, who wrote on the vanity of learning, and the excellent qualities of womankind; and the illustrious Miguel Cervantes, to whom we owe the admirable romance of _Don Quixote_.

We may add to this list Paul Borghese, who died of hunger; Tasso, who lived a whole week on a crown, which someone loaned him: true, he ceased to be poor, but only on the eve of his death; Aldus Manutius, who was so poor that he became bankrupt simply by borrowing money enough to ship his library from Venice to Rome, whither he had been summoned; Cardinal Bentivoglio, to whom we owe the history of the civil wars of Flanders: he did not leave enough to pay for his burial; Baudoin, translator of almost all the Latin authors; Vauglas, the grammarian; Du Ryer, author of tragedies, and translator of the Koran; all these lived in indigence. But we will pause here; examples are not lacking, but they would carry us too far; and then, they are not cheerful, and are out of our usual line; it was Monsieur Cherami's plight which induced us to cite so many. Let us now return to that gentleman.

Monsieur Cherami, whom we have seen so poorly dressed, and uncertain as to whether he will have any dinner, had once occupied a brilliant position, and had been noted for his dress, his bearing, and his gallant adventures. His father, who had been an eminent figure in the magistracy during the Consulate, had no other child. Arthur (such was Monsieur Cherami's baptismal name) had been petted, fondled, worshipped, spoiled, and his parents had proposed to make a great man of him. Poor parents! who believe that they can make their son an eminent personage, just as they would make him a tailor or a bootmaker. Arthur did become great, but in stature only. They sent him to school and gave him an excellent education; young Cherami learned readily enough; he was intelligent and quick-witted; he became especially strong in such elegant accomplishments as fencing, riding, and gymnastics; but he had the greatest aversion for serious work of every sort, and when his parents asked him: "Do you want to be a lawyer, a doctor, a man of letters, a broker, or a general?" Arthur replied: "I prefer to walk on the boulevards and smoke big eight-sou cigars."

This reply, which left nothing to be desired in the way of frankness, indicated a most generous inclination to consume the fortune which his parents had so laboriously amassed in business, and which, in fact, they left to their beloved son without undue delay. At the age of twenty-two, Arthur, who had as yet done nothing else than promenade and smoke, found himself an orphan and possessed of thirty-five thousand francs a year.

Thereupon, he abandoned himself to his taste for pleasure, augmented by a very keen penchant for the fair sex; and the fair sex is never ungrateful to a rich and open-handed man. Arthur was not handsome: his crooked nose, his small eyes, and his pointed chin, did not tend to make him a very attractive youth; however, the women told him again and again that he was charming, adorable, irresistible, and he believed it. We are so ready to believe anything that flatters our self-esteem! And yet, Arthur was no fool; indeed, he had his share of wit; but he was totally lacking in common sense, and without common sense, wit, as a general rule, serves no other purpose than to make one do foolish things. La Rochefoucauld makes this reflection with respect to women; for my part, I consider it perfectly applicable to both sexes.

At thirty years, Beau Cherami had spent, consumed, swallowed, his entire inheritance. But he had been noted for his costumes, his horses, his conquests, his love affairs. Eight years to run through a fortune worth thirty-five thousand francs a year--that is not such a very rapid pace; we often see young men who use up three times as much in much less time; to be sure, young Arthur did not gamble on the Bourse.

Being obliged then to sell his furniture, horses, and silverware, Cherami lived some time longer on the product of the sale; but his friends already began to find him less clever and amiable, and the women no longer called him their handsome Arthur. That was because he could no longer make them beautiful presents; and instead of loaning money to his friends and paying their shares of the expense of an orgy, he asked them to pay for him, and often applied to them for loans.

At thirty-five, Arthur was what these good friends of his called utterly _degomme_: in other words, ruined. After he had lived for some time on credit, his tailor, his shirtmaker, his bootmaker, refused to trust him any more; whereupon he was obliged to wear garments that were worn and faded, and eventually threadbare; hats that had turned from black to rusty; worn boots that were rarely polished. When Cherami, in this garb, said to one of his former acquaintances: "I have left my purse at home; lend me twenty francs, will you?" the acquaintance would make a wry face and loan him five francs instead of twenty, and sometimes nothing at all; for a man in a threadbare coat does not inspire confidence. We loan money to the rich, because we think that they will return it.

After some time, Beau Arthur found that this last source of income was exhausted. He had said so often to his quondam friends: "I have forgotten my purse," or: "I have just discovered that there's a hole in my pocket," that they fled as soon as they saw him; many of them even ceased to return his bow, and pretended not to know him. Misfortune is the reef on which friendship is wrecked.