Part 8

"Trompe-moi, trompons-nous, C'est un plaisir assez doux!"

Bless my soul! he's really asleep.--Au revoir, Père Mignon. Take this, to wake you up, as you haven't anything to say to me."

And the girl brought her fist down hard on the old cap that Chamoureau had put on his head; then she ran laughing from the room, while the unlucky widower, who dared not stir and had taken the blow without a word, with difficulty extricated himself from the cap which was jammed down on his nose.

"That servant is very familiar with the concierge," he muttered; "if I were Madame Mignon, I would keep an eye on her.--And that cab doesn't come! It seems as if everything was against me!--But what's all this noise in the house? One would think there was a row on every floor. Gad! I wish I were a long way from here!"

There was, in fact, a great shouting on the second floor, a quarrel on the third, and a lively exchange of insulting epithets on the fourth. One would have thought that the house was given over to pillage; all the tenants were in the halls, the uproar increased momentarily and seemed to approach the concierge's lodge. Soon the voices became distinct; everybody seemed to be coming downstairs. Some persons went out; but the tenants collected in front of the concierge's window and began to abuse him.

"So this is the way you carry out my orders, is it, you blockhead of a concierge?" cried a young man wrapped in a handsome dressing-gown. "It seems to me that I pay you well enough for you to give some attention to what I say to you. I told you last night that if anyone should ask for me this morning, I was not at home, not at home to anybody! it was impossible to misunderstand me. I added simply: 'You will not let anything come up but my breakfast, my chocolate, which they make for me in the restaurant close by.'--A child always brings it, so that you couldn't make any mistake about that. But lo and behold! someone rings; I say to myself: 'there's my chocolate.' I open the door, and what do I see? my tailor! A creature whom I left because he dressed me wretchedly, and now he insists on my paying him a regular apothecary's bill--a bill in which he charges sixty francs for a waistcoat! And that fellow shrieks and threatens me! I was tempted to pitch him over the stair-rail.--And it's you, you idiot, who are responsible for this scene! Pay a tailor! In God's name, what do you take me for?"

Next came a lady's maid in a frenzy.

"Why did you let anybody go up to Madame Duponceau's? You know very well that madame is never visible before one o'clock at the earliest. You have been told enough times! I had gone out to buy some rolls; the bell rang; madame thought I had forgotten my key and opened the door, and there was a strange gentleman who's paying court to madame and has never seen her except by candle-light. You can judge of my mistress's despair, for her face wasn't made up; every morning she puts on white and pink and red and black--paints herself all colors--to say nothing of the false hair and artificial teeth and substitutes of all sorts.--And to show herself to monsieur in that state! she was furious; she slammed the door in his face, saying: 'I'm not in!' But the trick was turned all the same; the stranger stood like a statue on the landing, and when I came back my mistress paid me and discharged me; I've lost my place--and all because this old goose of a concierge said that Madame Duponceau was visible at this time of the morning! But this ain't the last of it; I must have another place or else I'll complain to the landlord and have you sent about your business."

"I," said a man, "asked him ten times if Mademoiselle Crémailly had come back from the country; he finally said yes, so I went up to the fourth floor--and when one's lame, it isn't pleasant to go up four flights of stairs--and I found nobody but the cook, breakfasting with a soldier. Very pretty, on my word! I'll let Mademoiselle Crémailly know about it."

"I was breakfasting with my cousin, monsieur; that ain't a crime. He was on duty last night at the Opéra, and he looked in this morning to say good-day; where's the harm? I asked him to breakfast with me--just a boiled egg--there's no need of making a long story out of that. You can tell Mademoiselle Crémailly if you want to. I'm not afraid of her discharging me for such a little thing as that. This concierge hasn't got two sous' worth of common sense, to tell you mademoiselle had come back from the country, when she's going to be there at least two weeks longer! He must have had too much white wine this morning."

A lady enveloped in a simple _peignoir_ cried even louder than the others:

"You are a miserable villain, concierge! You will be the cause of a duel. Moncornu found Hippolyte in my room. To be sure, Hippolyte was doing nothing wrong there; he had taken off his overcoat, it is true, but only so that he could light my fire better. Every day a man takes off his overcoat to kindle a lady's fire. That's the way the most harmless actions are twisted into crimes in a jealous rival's eyes. Moncornu rushed upon Hippolyte, using language which I will not repeat. Hippolyte is not the man to allow himself to be insulted without replying. I tried in vain to pacify them. From words they came to threats, and finally they went out to fight. O God! if Hippolyte is killed, I shall not survive him! If Moncornu is the one, I shall never be consoled; still I would rather it should be Moncornu than Hippolyte.--You horrid brute of a concierge, you are the cause of all this! Your orders were to say: 'Madame is at the bath,' as usual, and you said: 'She's there, she's there!' You're a blockhead, a donkey! you never were fit to keep a door!"

All these clamors and upbraidings assailed Chamoureau's ears without inducing him to turn his head; on the contrary, he slunk down still deeper into his chair and tried to show nothing but his cap. But the obstinate silence of the person whom they all supposed to be the concierge simply intensified the general indignation. They shouted at him:

"What have you to say to all this?"

"Come, speak!"

"Tell us why you did it."

"You see, he won't say a word!"

"Monsieur doesn't even condescend to answer us."

"Don't you hear us, concierge? have you suddenly gone deaf?"

"Can it be that he's still asleep?"

"That isn't possible; we've made noise enough to wake the dead."

"This silence isn't natural!"

"He doesn't move; can he have had a stroke of apoplexy?"

"We must find out what the matter is. The poor fellow! here we are abusing him, and perhaps he is dead!"

Meanwhile someone had opened the door, and several persons rushed in at the same moment. They ran to the easy-chair and began by turning it round so that they could see the person seated in it; whereupon there were exclamations of surprise on every side.

"It isn't Père Mignon!"

"It isn't the concierge!"

"It's a false concierge!"

"Just look at the costume; it's a Spaniard of the time of Louis XIII."

"It's a masker."

"He isn't masked."

"It's a masker, all the same; that's what they call people disguised."

"It's a thief who broke into the lodge while the concierge was away."

"He's taken his cap already."

"Answer; what are you doing here, merry-andrew?"

Chamoureau decided to rise; he tossed the concierge's cap aside, resumed his own cap with the plumes, and replied, affecting a dignified air:

"In the first place, messieurs and mesdames, I am not a thief and you will soon have proof that I am not. I am waiting for the concierge to return; he has gone to get me a cab, for you will understand that I could not go home on foot in this disguise."

"But you don't belong in the house. Why did you come here?"

"I came here, intending to go to the apartment of my intimate friend Freluchon, on the fourth floor, opposite Mademoiselle Crémailly, because my clothes are there and I expected to put them on. But Freluchon did not come home, which was very wrong on his part, as he has my clothes."

"Oh! it very often happens that he doesn't come home at night," murmured the young servant who came for the newspaper, smiling as she said it.

"You understand now, messieurs and mesdames, why I let everybody go up; Père Mignon did not tell me his orders, he didn't have time; besides, even if he had, I should probably have made mistakes, for I am beginning to realize that the trade of concierge demands strict attention as well as memory."

Chamoureau's explanation seemed plausible, but no one was willing to go away until the concierge came. His wife arrived first, however, and when she saw the gentleman in fancy costume in her room, she exclaimed:

"Mon Dieu! my husband has been changed! Who in the world is this Spaniard? What's happened to Mignon? I want my husband! He's never been to Spain!"

They strove to pacify the concierge's wife by repeating what Chamoureau had just told them, but she refused to credit the Spaniard's story and continued to cry:

"That ain't true, I say. Mignon wouldn't have left his post for this disguised man that nobody knows. He took Mignon's place; what's he done with him? If my husband don't return soon, I'll have this carnivalizer arrested!"

But the concierge's return put an end to his wife's shrieks and to the tenants' suspicions.

"Faith, monsieur," he said, going up to Chamoureau, "I had lots of trouble finding a cab for you; I went to at least four stands, and not a cab to be seen! I met an empty one at last, on Rue de Provence a minute ago, and brought it here. But if I'd known I should be away so long, I certainly wouldn't have done your errand for you!"

"Especially as your substitute does such nice things!" cried Madame Duponceau's maid.

"Let me hear no more of all that nonsense!" said Chamoureau, leaving the room.--"Your husband isn't lost, you see, Madame Mignon.--Messieurs and mesdames, you must be convinced now that I am not a thief. I have the honor to salute you."

With that, Chamoureau hurried to the sidewalk and was stupefied to find there an open _milord_.

"Why, concierge," he cried, in dire distress, "I asked you to get a closed cab, so that I couldn't be seen."

"Go and get one for yourself and leave us in peace!" exclaimed Madame Mignon, who was still in a bad humor.

Chamoureau made the best of it, jumped into the _milord_, gave the driver his address, and throughout the journey held his cap in front of his face, like a fan.

IX

A BUSINESS AGENT'S OFFICE

Chamoureau occupied a very comfortable apartment on what is called the Carré Saint-Martin, that is to say, the junction of Rue Saint-Martin and the boulevard. There he carried on the profession of business agent; he undertook the purchase or sale of houses, the investment of funds, the recovery of old debts, in short, everything which business agents--_hommes d'affaires_--generally undertake; most of them having passed the examination for admission to the roll of advocates, and some having even assumed that title, they are generally familiar with the laws and with all the tricks of the profession.

Chamoureau did not lack clients, for he had the reputation of being an honorable man, and was one in fact; in his case that quality was an advantageous substitute for cleverness, which unfortunately is not always a guaranty of uprightness. By which we do not mean that a man may not be both a fool and a knave. Nature is sometimes as lavish of evil as of good qualities.

Several persons had already called to confer with the business agent on the morning following the Opéra ball. They had found no one but the woman employed to do his housework, who always found the key at the concierge's lodge. Not finding Chamoureau, she assumed that he had gone out very early on business.

At eight o'clock, a man from the country made his appearance. He seemed to be half-bourgeois, half-peasant; he was about fifty years of age, short and thickset; his head was set low between his shoulders; his features were ugly and without distinction, their only expression being that distrust so customary among country people, who are always suspicious of those who live in cities and believe that they are always trying to cheat them; probably because when they themselves are at home they have no scruples about cheating city folk.

This man asked the concierge if Monsieur Chamoureau, business agent, was at home, and the concierge replied:

"He must be; I haven't seen him go out;" the fact being that he had not seen him come in; but concierges do not always notice the goings and comings of their tenants.

The little stout man started upstairs, but thought better of it and returned to the concierge.

"I say--between you and me--this Monsieur Chamoureau who keeps a real estate office--can I trust him? is he a good business man? You see how it is--I'm from the country, but I don't want to get cheated here in Paris! And, you see, I've heard as how your business agents was as likely as not to be thieves who did their business at the expense of the poor devils who put theirs in their hands."

"Oh! monsieur, you needn't have any fear about Monsieur Chamoureau; he's a very square man! nobody's ever said a word against his honesty. He pays everybody cash--even his baker; he don't owe the least bit of a debt in the quarter!"

"Well, well! that's good enough! and he ain't a woman's man--a rake--a spendthrift?"

"Not at all; he leads a very quiet life and don't put on any airs; he don't stay out too late--always comes home when the theatre's out, when he goes there. To be sure, the theatres keep it up nowadays till an hour that makes it unpleasant for concierges--but still, that ain't Monsieur Chamoureau's fault."

"That's good too! and is he married? has he got a wife and children?"

"No; he was married, but he's been a widower a short time; and he keeps up his regret for his wife, which is very noble on his part; he can't talk about her without crying."

"Oh, well! if he cries for his wife, I see that I can trust him. So I'll just go up and hand over my papers to him. You see, it's about collecting some money for me at some of the departments and from notaries. They told me like this: 'You just give some business agent a power of attorney and he'll attend to it all for you.'--So I had the power of attorney made out with the name left blank; and you think I can safely turn it over to your Monsieur Cha--Chamouilleau?"

"You can, monsieur; you needn't have any fear."

"In that case, I'll go up. Good-day, monsieur le concierge."

The little man arrived at Chamoureau's door on the second floor.

"Monsieur went out early," said the charwoman, "but he'll certainly be back soon; if you'd like to wait, please take a seat."

"I'll wait as long as I've come; I'd rather wait than go back."

The countryman sat down in a sort of reception room lined with shelves which were filled with boxes, all of which gave the room a sort of resemblance to a solicitor's office; only the clerks were lacking. But the sight of boxes and of docketed files of papers always produces a great effect on clients of the type of the little thickset man. He looked around, evidently impressed, and said to himself:

"Yes, yes! this must be a famous business agent; there's lots of papers in them boxes!"

The countryman had been awaiting Chamoureau's return about fifteen minutes, when another person arrived. This was a man of middle age, with a bald head, long face and bumptious manner, who at once reminded one of the Joseph Prudhomme so well delineated by Henri Monnier.

This gentleman, who was dressed all in black, with a white cravat, which did not prevent his having a decidedly dirty look, entered the room with his head in the air, saying:

"I wish to speak at once with Monsieur Chamoureau, business agent; announce me, servant; I am Aimé-Désiré-Jules Beaubichon, professor of bookkeeping; however, your master knows me; I have seen him twice--in this domicile,--concerning the delicate affair, the purport of which I have succinctly laid before him. It relates to the subject of marriage; he has told me of a young woman whose virtue and morals he will answer for; and I am most particular touching those qualifications, provided that a suitable dowry be added to them, the face and form being in my eyes mere superfluities of little importance to a housewife in watching her soup-kettle!--I am disposed to take upon myself the bonds of matrimony once more if all the conditions are in accord with my social position, which, I venture to say, is as honorable as it is lucrative; fifteen hundred francs a year, without counting gifts from pupils--when they make any!"

The servant continued to dust the furniture as she listened to this harangue; when it was at an end, she replied:

"Monsieur Chamoureau went out early; he's sure to be back soon; if you'd like to wait--monsieur here has been waiting a quarter of an hour."

Monsieur Beaubichon cast a sidelong glance at the man from the country, who put his hand to his hat; whereupon the professor concluded to touch his own slightly and to address his companion.

"Is monsieur also awaiting Monsieur Chamoureau?"

"Yes, monsieur, with your permission."

"I have no intention of objecting. Would monsieur care to learn bookkeeping, double or single entry?"

"Me! learn bookkeeping! God bless me! what for?"

"What for? why, in order to know it."

"And what use would it be to me?"

"Why, to keep your books; to have everything down in black and white!"

"In the first place, I haven't got any books--oh, yes! except the _Country Cook_ for the women, and fairy stories for the young ones, and their catechism for 'em to learn their lesson out of; but all of them keep themselves in a closet; there ain't no need for us to learn to keep 'em."

"Dense ignorance!" muttered Monsieur Beaubichon, shrugging his shoulders.--"Then you are not in business, monsieur?" he continued, aloud.

"Oh, yes! I sell wine from my own vines, and fruit from the orchard when there's a good crop!"

"Well, then you must have books to write in--'sold Monsieur So-and-So so much; received from Monsieur Thingumbob so much.'"

"It ain't worth while, for I almost always sell for cash, and then, if anyone does owe me money, why, there ain't no danger of my forgetting it before he pays me."

The professor gave another shrug and began to pace the floor.

"And people say that we are going forward, they declare that our progress is constant! But where is this boasted progress, I pray to know, when this countryman has no ledger wherein to keep a running account with his apricots and his pears!--Servant, your master does not return; a pupil awaits me; I go to place my learning at his service, to instil my knowledge into him. I will return. Beg Monsieur Chamoureau to wait for me, and may he be pregnant with information concerning the marriageable young lady!"

The gentleman in black having retired, the countryman said to the charwoman:

"Who in the devil is that fellow who puffs himself out when he talks, just exactly like a bladder when you blow it up? He looks like a schoolmaster--with his books he wants to learn me to keep. And then I saw how he hoisted up his shoulders and called me 'dirty'[H] under his breath! But just let him come down our way, and I'll bet he don't so much as know how to plant beans or hoe potatoes! All these fellows that put on so many airs in the city ain't good for nothing in the country; they don't know how to use a spade nor yet a pickaxe! But it's my opinion that the man what makes the vegetables grow that you eat deserves to be thought just as much of as that critter what makes scrawls on books."

The servant continued to dust the furniture, nodding her head approvingly.

"I'd like to know if your master, Monsieur Cha--Chabouleau puts on airs and eyes country folks like that crow that just went out; because if he does, why, I wouldn't give him any business of mine, d'ye see."

"No, monsieur, no; never fear. Monsieur Chamoureau is too well-bred not to be polite to everybody, especially his clients. He'd take off his hat to a child two years old, if the child should give him his business."

"All right! but seemin' to me your bourgeois is staying out a long while."

"In Paris, monsieur, one can never be sure how long it will take to do an errand."

"That's so; because there's so many carriages passing--that delays you. Well, here it is raining now!"

"And monsieur didn't bring his umbrella."

"They told me nobody used umbrellas in Paris now, as there's so many busses that folks never walk."

"That's an exaggeration, monsieur; people still go on foot when they prefer to walk."

"They told me that there's going to be a railroad underneath Paris, so's you can take the underground and go quicker when there's too many people on top. That ain't a bad idea.--But, sapristi! the bourgeois don't seem to come back."

Twenty minutes more had passed, when there was a great uproar in the street; hoots and shouts of laughter, and yells from the street urchins. The servant opened a window on that side to ascertain the cause of the tumult.

The _milord_ containing our widower had stopped in front of the house, and before he had had time to alight, a crowd had collected round the cab, because its occupant was in plain sight.

Shouts of _"à la chienlit!"_ went up on all sides. The concierge stood in his doorway, looking on with the rest. Chamoureau, having paid his driver, could hardly force his way through the crowd, which yelled at him:

"Oh! you Spaniard!"

"Just look at him! ain't he dazzling with his spangles!"

"He's a Spaniard--he's a regular sun!"

"But he'll lose his boots; he's treading on 'em!"

At last, by dint of pushing this way and that, Chamoureau reached the door; he tried to enter in a hurry, but the concierge barred the way, saying with an air of importance:

"What do you want? where are you going?"

"What's that? where am I going? Why, to my rooms, parbleu!"

"You have evidently made a mistake; we don't let rooms to buffoons!"

"On my word! this is too much!--How is this, concierge? don't you recognize me--Chamoureau?"

The concierge was stupefied; he could not believe his eyes and his ears; he could not conceive that that sedate and orderly tenant, who always wept when his wife was mentioned, could come home at ten o'clock in the morning, dressed as a Spaniard.

But Chamoureau left him to digest his amazement and hurried upstairs. The servant, who had not recognized her master, had just left the window, saying:

"It's a masker coming home from the ball! The deuce! he has made a night of it and no mistake! this is none too early to come home!"

"Do you mean to say that balls last till the next forenoon?" asked the countryman.

"No, monsieur, they end at daybreak, but after that the maskers go to supper and raise the deuce at wine-shops; three-quarters of 'em get tight and don't go home till they haven't got another sou to spend, like this fellow who's just come into the house, I suppose. I'd like to know who he is. He must be a regular loose fish, to come home from the ball after ten o'clock in the morning. I'll ask the concierge who he is."

The bell rang and the woman ran to open the door.

"This time it's monsieur, sure!" she said.

But seeing before her a man in fancy costume, she was about to prevent his entrance, as the concierge had done. But Chamoureau pushed her aside with some force.

"Are you going to make a fool of yourself like the concierge?" he cried, "Sapristi! here I am at home at last! thank God for that!"

He fell into a chair, snatched off his cap, unbuckled his cloak, and shook his feet to rid himself of his top-boots, and as they were far too large, he sent one in the face of the countryman who had been waiting so long for him, and whom, in his hurried home-coming, he had not noticed.