VOLUME III

SANS-CRAVATE; OR, THE MESSENGERS

VOL. I

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS BOSTON NEW YORK

_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._

SANS-CRAVATE;

OR,

THE MESSENGERS

I

THE IDLERS.--BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS

Three young men, arm in arm, were walking, or, to speak more accurately, loitering, along Boulevard des Italiens, looking to right and left, scrutinizing the women at close quarters, especially when they were pretty; commenting aloud on the face of one and the bearing of another, interspersing their reflections with jests, puns, foolish remarks, and bursts of laughter; and, lastly, smoking cigars, an accomplishment which is now indispensable to the young men of fashion whose ordinary promenade is the Boulevard de la Chaussée d'Antin.

It is a little world in itself that frequents Boulevard des Italiens, a fashionable, aristocratic, eccentric boulevard, where, none the less, many of the promenaders affect manners, dress, and language which remind us forcibly of Diogenes. Each portion of a large city has its quarters, with their habitués and their residents, whose dress, language, and manners have their own peculiar characteristics. Thus, there is a marked difference between the costume of an annuitant of the Marais and that of the ex-young man of the Chaussée d'Antin; between the dress of a grande dame of Faubourg Saint-Germain and that of a bourgeois housewife of the Cité; between the grisette of Rue Saint-Jacques and her of Place Bréda, who has lately taken the name of lorette. Of course, the residents of one quarter do not remain altogether on their own territory, and they may sometimes be met with in a neighboring section. But, even then, a practised eye never makes a mistake; it recognizes the strangers at once, and does not confound them with the natives of the quarter. In vain do the former try to assume the bearing and manners of the latter--the natural instincts, when we try to drive them away, return at a gallop, and it would be as difficult for a government clerk who lives on Rue Saint-Antoine to resemble a clerk in a banking house on Rue Laffite, as for a siren of Place Maubert to copy the manners of a young lady of Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

Boulevard des Italiens is no ordinary promenade; it deserves the attention of the observer; indeed, it is worthy of a chapter in the history of Paris, for it has changed its name more than once in accordance with political exigencies.

At the time of the Revolution of '89, this segment of the boulevards was called Coblentz, and it retained that name under the Empire. Not until 1815, at the time of the Second Restoration, did it exchange the name of Coblentz for that of Gand. The former name recalled the place of rendezvous of the _émigrés_ of the Revolution; the other, the second return of Louis XVIII. The French have always loved to bring politics into the most trivial things; they have brought it into their ballads and into the names of flowers; so they could consistently give a political tinge to the name of a fashionable promenade. But the great majority of the ladies who resort to Boulevard des Italiens in search of conquests put no politics in their smiles; they are cosmopolites, for they have been known to dart glances impartially at republicans and legitimists, at old soldiers of the Empire and favorites of the Restoration; it has been observed, however, that they affect more particularly the partisans of the _juste-milieu_.

But do not believe that all the ladies who occupy the chairs along the boulevard of a pleasant evening go thither to make conquests! The very best society was often to be seen on Boulevard Coblentz, and later on Boulevard de Gand; and may be seen sometimes, but more rarely, on Boulevard des Italiens.

People go there to discuss the new ballet at the Opéra, the last performance at the Bouffes, the reception of Madame la Comtesse Blank, and the ball recently given by the richest banker of the quarter. Some meet there by appointment; some pay visits there. You will see young men approach a party of ladies, stop before their chairs, salute them and pay them compliments as they would do in a salon; and, after a few moments' conversation, take leave of them and continue their stroll, stopping again, perhaps, a little farther on, to speak to others of their acquaintances.

Some years ago, it was the fashion to make a careful toilet before going to Boulevard de Gand; the ladies would exhibit a new style of head-dress, the men were all fashionably dressed; when one of them appeared with a coat of a new cut, the fashion was instantly adopted by the dandies of the capital.

Other times, other manners! It is no longer the fashion to dress for a stroll on Boulevard des Italiens. Now that the cigar has invaded that quarter, and most of the men smoke, the most fashionable young men seem to affect a simple, even severe, costume, which makes them resemble the Puritans, as their beards remind one of the young noblemen of the time of François I.

Let us return to our three idlers.

The one in the middle, who was not more than twenty-two years of age, was above medium height; he was well built, slender, easy and graceful in his bearing, and wore with much grace a morning costume, whose cut betrayed the hand of an ultra-fashionable tailor. He wore patent-leather boots, and carried in his hand a pretty little switch, the head of which was a beautiful bit of chased silver. The young man's face did not clash with the attractions of his dress and bearing. He was dark, and his large black eyes emitted an incessant gleam, wherein wit, mockery, fun, and sometimes emotion and sentiment, shone in turn. An irreproachable nose, a well-shaped mouth, supplied with teeth so white as to justify a feeling of pride therein; an oval face, with thin black whiskers and a small moustache connecting them;--such was young Albert Vermoncey; one could not justly deny him the title of a comely youth.

On his left arm leaned a young man who was apparently some years older than the fascinating Albert, but who was also one of the lions, or, if you prefer, beaux, of the day. But his bearing lacked the grace wherein lay his companion's charm. He was taller and stouter, but there was stiffness in his gait, and affectation in the way he carried his head on one side, and in the way he wore his hat over his ear. The difference in the faces of the two was even more marked; taken separately, the features of this second member of the party were not bad, but the whole effect was far from pleasant. The color of his eyes was uncertain; and then, too, he kept the lids lowered, and rarely looked at the person with whom he was talking. Lastly, his face commonly wore a sarcastic expression, which was sometimes insulting; one would have said that he was always inclined to pick a quarrel with someone. This young man's name was Célestin de Valnoir.

The individual who walked at Albert's right, but not on his arm, was of about his age, but much shorter, and possessed of a very pronounced embonpoint. His hair, which had a reddish tinge, curled naturally and fell in abundance on each side of his face, which was round and fresh and rosy, but a little too fat. He had attractive features: eyes almost round, but of a very clear blue; a small aquiline nose, which seemed to point to an Israelitish origin; red lips and very handsome teeth, and a dimple in the middle of his chin. All these combined to make a very attractive, chubby angel's face, which lacked character only, for its expression very rarely varied; it was that of a person who is overjoyed to be in the world. It required some very serious cause to banish his stereotyped smile; but it disappeared when he thought that he had lost his handkerchief or a piece of money. At such times an extraordinary revolution took place in his features: his nose increased in size, his mouth contracted, his eyes seemed to be on the point of starting from their orbits; in fact, he became so ugly that he was almost unrecognizable.

This third idler was dressed with more pretension than taste; he had a huge scarfpin, with a cameo; a heavy hair chain, which he wore about his neck, fell over his waistcoat and held a little square monocle, which he put in his right eye from time to time. Add to these a very fine Malacca joint, with an enormous gold or gilt head, which he often held by the middle and twirled in the air, and you have a fair portrait of Tobie Pigeonnier. His baptismal name often led people to think that he was born in the Jewish religion; but whenever he was questioned on the subject, he seemed to take offence at the suggestion that he was a descendant of Jacob.

Let us listen to the conversation of these young gentlemen; that is the best way of making acquaintance with people.

Albert Vermoncey was telling his two friends an anecdote which seemed to amuse them mightily:

"Yes, messieurs; it was at Madame Baldimer's last reception. You know whom I mean? that American who has made such a sensation in Paris, because she is very beautiful, very bright, and very original."

"And who is supposed to be very rich," said Célestin.

"Well, isn't she?" queried Tobie Pigeonnier, rubbing his nose with the head of his cane.

"Why, people are beginning to doubt it; she gives very few big dinners now."

"If she gives many small ones, that amounts to the same thing."

"What a stupid creature you are, Tobie! Pray let me finish my story. Madame Plays was there with her husband. Good God! what a husband! he ought to serve as a model for them all."

"Because his wife has given him a pair of horns that wouldn't pass under Porte Saint-Denis?"

"Oho!" said Tobie, laughing uproariously; "do you mean to say that poor Monsieur Plays is a stag?"

"I say, Célestin, to think that Tobie didn't know that! Where have you been, my dear fellow--to the Marquesas Islands? to the kingdom of Lahore?"

"As if Tobie knew anything! When a man has passed his youth on Rue Beaubourg, he is bound to be far behind the times."

"Oh! I have lived on Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins more than three years now."

"Look, messieurs! see this coming toward us, with the little lilac hat and the pink dress. I rather like the looks of it. Here's a chance to shoot off your monocle, Tobie; especially as the wind makes the lady's dress cling close to her thighs, and we are going before the wind."

"She isn't pretty," said Célestin, as the person with the lilac hat passed them.

"Gad! Célestin, you shouted that in her ears; I'll bet that she heard you."

"Well, suppose she did? aren't opinions free? I say, Tobie; speaking of Rue Beaubourg, I thought that nobody but Jews lived there."

"That's a fable, you see, as I lived there."

"That's no reason. You may be of that religion yourself."

"I have told you many times that I am a Lutheran, of Polish descent. I don't know why you insist on calling me a Jew."

"Well, suppose you were a Jew," said Albert; "what harm would it do you? Aren't there men of merit, men of genius, in all religions? and in respect to the arts, fortune, and talents, the Jewish nation is one of the most richly endowed at this moment. We are not living in the barbarous times when the people loved of God were so badly treated, when the children of Israel were compelled to wear a distinguishing mark on their clothes and their hats."

"It was a yellow mark," said Célestin, with a sneer.

"Yes; and now that color has become so fashionable that a yellow mark would not be distinctive at all. Ah! there's a young actress from the Variétés. Whom is she with to-day?"

"With an Englishman who is in a fair way to ruin himself for her. It won't take long; she makes her adorers strike a fast pace."

"She is right; she is the fashion now, and she is making the most of it. It doesn't last long in Paris."

"But it seems to me that I could mention several ladies of her stamp who have been the fashion for fifteen years at least. What a pile of money they have fricasseed, eh?"

"Do you know, I like the word _fricasseed_; it's a fact that they spend it with all sorts of sauce."

"If only they had the sense to put some of it by; then they wouldn't be obliged to end as box openers, after cutting a brilliant figure on the stage."

"Put money by! that's a reflection quite worthy of Tobie! What I can't understand is, how he ever made up his mind to buy such a big pin, with a cameo. How much did your cameo cost, Tobie? and your cane must have cost a lot, too. Damnation! what a swell! he denies himself nothing!"

"True," said Célestin; "but it would be well to know if it's all real gold."

Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier blushed to the end of his nose; but he affected to laugh heartily, and replied:

"Ah! Monsieur de Valnoir, how unkind of you! When you find me wearing anything that isn't of the first quality, you will be very sharp. I care for nothing, of any sort, that is not really choice. It's the same with my linen--I must always have the very finest. The shirt I am wearing cost me seventy-five francs."

"Have you many dozens of that sort?"

"Why, yes; I like to have a lot of linen; I was brought up to that habit. My mother had five or six large wardrobes filled with sheets--all fine Holland. When I go into partnership with my aunt, I shall deny myself nothing; I shall have only the finest damask on my table----"

"Have you an aunt in business?"

"Yes; she sells all sorts of goods on commission. It's a big establishment: twelve clerks and eight travelling men. She promised long ago to put me at the head of it; and if it hadn't been for some escapades of mine, she'd have done it before now."

Célestin began to whistle between his teeth, and Albert, who had not been listening to Tobie for several minutes, suddenly exclaimed:

"Isn't that Madame Baldimer in that little _citadine_?"

Albert's two companions thereupon looked into the street, and Célestin, after glancing at a carriage which was passing, replied:

"Yes, that is she."

"Was she alone?"

"I think not; I thought that I caught a glimpse of a moustache beside her face."

Albert's face became clouded; he looked after the _citadine_, which was already some distance away, then stopped and seemed to hesitate as to what he should do next.

"Well! what's the matter with you?" said Célestin, looking at his friend as if he would have liked to read his inmost thoughts; "do you think of following that carriage?"

Albert tried to smile, as he replied:

"The fact is that I am curious to know---- This Madame Baldimer is a great flirt, but she has no lover, so far as anyone knows; she allows everybody to pay court to her, and seems inclined to make sport of her adorers."

"Why is anyone foolish enough to pay court to her?"

"Why, because she is lovely."

"There's no lack of lovely women in Paris."

"Nor in the suburbs," said Tobie. "I knew one at Nanterre. Such a love of a woman!"

"Did she sell cakes?"

"Ah! you joker! cakes! She was a woman of very high position."

"Did she live on a hill?"

"She had a villa, monsieur, a magnificent villa."

"At Nanterre? That is strange; I never happened to see any fine houses there."

"It wasn't just at Nanterre, but in the neighborhood."

Albert Vermoncey was lost in thought; he walked very slowly, and turned his head from time to time to see if he could still see the carriage.

Monsieur Célestin, who, without seeming to do so, closely watched his companion's movements, said, after a moment, dwelling significantly upon his words:

"A carriage is a very convenient thing, especially in Paris, where you can always be certain of finding one with blinds. If you have a secret errand to do, if you don't know where to meet your lover for a little chat--why, you step into a _citadine_, you join the person in question at the appointed place, she enters with you, you close the windows and lower the blinds; and then--go where you choose, driver, you are hired by the hour!--Drive through the most crowded streets of Paris, pass as close as you please to a husband, or a rival--he will see nothing. Sometimes, indeed, he will be the first to smile when he sees a hermetically closed carriage, and will say: 'That probably conceals some intrigue.'--Oh, yes! a carriage is a great convenience, I say again."

"It is, and it is not," said young Tobie, affecting a cunning expression; "because---- Still, if all the streets in Paris were paved with wood, it would be all right."

"Madame Baldimer did not hide," said Albert; "the blinds of her carriage were not lowered."

"Perhaps they are now," murmured Célestin.

Albert clenched his hands as if he had had a spasm of pain.

"I say, my dear Albert," said Tobie, after trying, but in vain, to fix his little glass in his right eye, "are you in love with this Madame Baldimer, that you seem inclined to follow her carriage?"

"I, in love with her? upon my word! Do you suppose that I am idiotic enough to fall in love with a woman again? I love them when they are pretty; but it lasts just so long as is necessary to triumph over them; that is quite enough. Mon Dieu! that is the best way to succeed with women. But if you really love them, you become melancholy, jealous, a bore to your friends; and your fair one no longer listens to you, and, what is worse, deceives you. Madame Baldimer is very beautiful; I have been attentive to her, as to many others."

"Yes," rejoined Tobie, sucking the gold head of his cane; "that is our business, to pay court to the ladies. Ah! if I should write my adventures--I had an idea of doing it once; but it would have taken too long; I hadn't the time, and the current forced me along."

"Did Madame Baldimer listen to you favorably?" asked Célestin, with a satirical glance at his friend.

"Why, not less so than to others. I have already told you that she plays the coquette with everybody and listens to no one."

"I should say that the gentleman who was with her in the _citadine_ just now might think differently."

Albert frowned and tapped his boot with his switch, as he replied:

"You say that there was a man with her; I saw no one."

"Because your sight is not good, apparently."

"Ah! there's Désilly, the illustrious Désilly."

Two young men who were just passing our three idlers stopped in front of them. One of the two, who wore a broad-brimmed hat with a pointed crown, and had a beard a sapper might have envied, shook hands with Albert and Célestin in turn, saying:

"How are you, boys! we are out for a stroll. I tell you, this is something like! Who will give me a cigar? I've just finished mine."

Albert took from his pocket a dainty cigar case of Italian straw, and offered it to the two new-comers, each of whom took a cigar and lighted it from Albert's and Célestin's; meanwhile, Tobie whispered in Albert's ear:

"Is that the artist Désilly, who draws such amusing, clever caricatures in the paper?"

"Himself."

"Désilly," said Célestin, "you promised to show me the collection of your latest caricatures, which I want to send to Bordeaux. When would you like me to come?"

"My boys, don't ask me anything at this moment; I have a love affair on hand, and it is impossible for me to think of anything else. It may last a week, perhaps two, but it surely won't go over a month; then I shall be at your service. Adieu!"

And the artist went off with his friend.

"He has a love affair on hand," said Monsieur Tobie; "and it seems to engage his attention to the exclusion of everything else."

"Yes; but he knows the measure of his sentiments, and he never makes a mistake. He is wiser than those men who when they are attacked by a new passion imagine that it will last forever!"

"Do they think that, nowadays?" said Tobie, toying carelessly with his hair chain. "By the way, Albert hasn't finished his story of Madame Plays, whose husband is a second Acteon. I demand the rest of the story, or my money back."

"Yes, yes, the rest of the story," said Célestin.

Albert resumed his narrative, but with much less animation, and as if he were doing it solely to oblige.

"Well, messieurs; Madame Plays was at Madame Baldimer's dance. The company was slightly mixed, as you can understand. A foreigner who has lived in Paris only a year cannot know very many people; and when she chooses to give receptions and balls, she must necessarily accept with confidence such guests as are presented to her; and her confidence is often misplaced."

"Sapristi! you are as verbose as a lawyer to-day, Albert."

"Madame Plays was superb; she is somewhat massive, as you know, but a very beautiful woman. Tall Saint-Clair, who was there, did not lose sight of her, and made eyes at her--Gad! it was enough to make one burst with laughter. Madame Plays responded, for lack of something better to do. She is a woman who must always have occupation. All of a sudden, it came into my head to rob that idiotic Saint-Clair of his conquest. I had never before given a thought to Madame Plays, although I had frequently met her in society. I had no sooner conceived the project, than I set to work. Supper had just been served; I seated myself beside the emotional Herminie--that is her name--and overwhelmed her with little attentions, interspersed with tender words. Ah! if you knew what success I had! it went so quickly that I was almost frightened. She went so far as to tell me that I had done very wrong not to declare myself sooner."

"Peste! the lady regretted the time she had lost. And Saint-Clair?"

"Oh! he was in an extraordinary state: as he was unable to obtain a seat beside his passion, he stood behind her at first; then, when he found that she didn't answer him, or pay any attention to him, he went off in a rage and sat at the other end of the table, where he began to eat and drink with a sort of frenzy; indeed, I think that he ended by getting a little tipsy, for, when we returned to the salon to dance, he was sitting in a corner, beside Monsieur Plays, and some people declared that he wept while he was talking with him. I should not be at all surprised if he had confided to him his chagrin at having failed to make him a cuckold."

"That would be charming. But the husband replied, no doubt: 'Never fear, my friend; somebody else will.'"

"I invited my conquest to dance. What a hussy she is! In the first place, she didn't spare the madeira and the champagne; but she's not like Saint-Clair, they didn't make her feel inclined to cry; on the contrary, she danced with such vigor, such enthusiasm! it was impossible to stop her. As we were all decidedly gay, somebody proposed dancing the cancan--the real thing. The superb Herminie dances it as well as a grisette from La Chaumière, and much more boldly than the lorettes at the Bal Saint-Georges. Gad! you ought to have seen us! We were truly admirable. The other women in the quadrille soon gave up their places, but Madame Plays kept on, with myself and six other men, three of whom danced as women. There was a great ring around us. Upon my word, it was a curious sight. I fancied that I heard somebody whisper that my partner had imbibed too much madeira and champagne, but I believe her to be quite capable of doing anything under heaven without the aid of liquor."

"And Madame Baldimer?"

"She didn't dance, but she laughed heartily."

"There is no need of asking you if that intrigue came to a successful end?"

"Oh! it was so easy. I assure you that conquests like that are not at all interesting, and there is so little difficulty about them that they do not even flatter our vanity. That happened a fortnight ago, and my only desire now is to rid myself of the passionate Herminie. Mon Dieu! that reminds me that I have an appointment with her for this evening. Messieurs, which of you would like to go in my place? I will turn over my conquest to him, with all my heart."

"Thanks," said Célestin, blowing a mouthful of smoke into the face of an old woman who was passing; "Madame Plays doesn't tempt me. She is too heavy for me."

"Why, I should say that you were strong enough to carry her," said Pigeonnier; "you have the build of an athlete, a gladiator. I am sure that you could easily carry a bag of flour that weighs three hundred and twenty-five."

"And because you suppose that I can carry a bag of flour, you suggest that I become Madame Plays's lover! The comparison is most flattering to the lady! What brilliant ideas that devil of a Tobie has!"

II

THE FLOWER GIRL

At that moment a young woman, with her head enveloped in a silk handkerchief, from beneath which long locks of chestnut hair emerged and hung in corkscrew curls on both sides of her face, approached the young men and accosted them with rather a brazen-faced air, thrusting divers bunches of violets almost into their faces.

"Messieurs, buy a bouquet of me, be the first to buy; you'll bring me luck."

"Aha! it's Bastringuette," said Albert, smiling at the girl, whose pale, thin face, eyes circled with black, and hoarse voice, suggested a very fatiguing profession.

"Come, buy of me; you always have some lady to give flowers to! you're a good customer!"

"You strike me at a bad time, my poor girl; my love affairs are too prosperous at this moment, I don't need to be gallant."

"I say, Bastringuette, what sort of business are you doing, that you have those black rings round your eyes, and look so fagged out?" said Monsieur Célestin, taking the flower girl by the chin. She had large brown eyes surmounted by heavy eyebrows, a large but well-shaped mouth, and would still have been a seductive person had she but a little fresher color and a less brazen expression.

"I do what I want! What odds is it to you who never buy anything of me?"

"Because I don't need to give bouquets to gain my ends, it is fair to suppose."

"Come, take away your paws! I don't wear anything false, I don't need to be felt of!--And you, my little love, won't you buy something of me? With such a face and style, you ought to have mistresses on every street, and even on the boulevards!"

This complimentary speech was addressed to Tobie Pigeonnier; he seemed to be exceedingly flattered by it, and, to manifest his satisfaction, rested his nose on each bunch of violets on her tray in turn, saying:

"She's very amusing, very clever, this flower girl! She has a pair of eyes--what pistols! how she fires 'em at you point-blank!"

"Well, my dear boy, are you going to confine yourself to putting your nose on all the bouquets? Thanks! You may sprinkle 'em, but that's not the kind of dampness that keeps 'em fresh. Come, buy this bunch!"

"No, I have no victims to sacrifice to-day; unless you would like to be one--eh, hussy?"

"Stop that! You're too puffy for me! I don't like wax figures; I should be afraid you'd melt in my arms!"

Albert and Célestin roared with laughter at the wry face which Tobie made when he received this compliment from the flower girl. Having tried once more to place his glass in his right eye, he cast a disdainful glance at Mademoiselle Bastringuette, saying:

"You are like your flowers, my dear; when one looks at you too close, he sees that he would be cheated."

"_Dame!_ that's not like you! one has only to glance at you to be satisfied that he gets nothing for his money."

Tobie's two friends laughed louder than ever; and he concluded to try to laugh with them, saying:

"The devil! we're dealing with a good fighter! I fancy I shall not have the last word with her."

"Not the last word nor anything else, my little fat man. _Dame!_ all the pleasure we poor girls have is with our tongue! We must make the most of it, for it don't cost anything."

"Take care! The tongue is the best and the worst part of us. Æsop said that."

"I don't know the gentleman; but mine seems to be a good one, for it don't wear out at all. It ain't like your waistcoat; see, monsieur, it's giving out under the arms!"

And Mademoiselle Bastringuette, whose eyes detected the most carefully hidden secrets of a man's toilet, pointed out to Tobie's friends a place in his silk waistcoat, which, although it was almost hidden by his coat, she had discovered. There was a rent large enough to show the sleeve of his shirt, which was of a coarse and yellow linen vastly different from that of the front.

The stout young man made haste to button his coat.

"I must have torn it when I put it on," he said. "My tailor always makes the armholes too small! and then, _crac!_ an accident."

"Oh! no, monsieur; that wasn't an accident! it's pretty well worn out on that side. See, it's like my dress! There's some attic windows for you!"

As she spoke, Mademoiselle Bastringuette lifted her arms and showed two great holes in her dress, under her armpits.

"I hope you'll believe that I've got another one to put on, though," she continued, with a smile. "Bah! what do I care! it won't hinder my selling my violets! And even if someone does see my skin! There's no harm done, after all. I haven't got a turkey's skin, like lots of women that have fine dresses and a dirty lining."

"She's very original; indeed, she's quite--original, is this girl," said Tobie, who was very glad that she had ceased to talk about his waistcoat; "she amuses me mightily."

"Why," said Albert, "didn't you know her before?"

"This is the first time I ever saw her."

"For a man who has lived in the Chaussée d'Antin for three years, that is very surprising. Everybody about here knows Bastringuette, the flower girl who sells violets on Boulevard des Italiens."

"I seldom buy flowers; their odor makes me ill."

"Yes, I sell violets when there are any," said Bastringuette; "but when they're all gone, I sell other things--oranges, nuts, green peas, lettuce. There's always something to sell, at all seasons, and that's why they call us _marchandes des quatre saisons_."

"It seems to me that your lover doesn't keep you very handsomely," observed Célestin, with a mocking glance at the girl.

"My lover! _dame!_ I don't know how he does it, but he never has a sou; and he's little better off for clothes than I am; luckily, love don't need a new coat to keep warm."

"Are you still with Sans-Cravate?" asked Albert, taking the largest bunch of violets on the girl's tray.

"To be sure. Oh! we poor girls aren't like the great ladies; we don't change our bill of fare every day."

"What! is that ne'er-do-well of a Sans-Cravate your lover?" said Célestin. "I don't congratulate you, my poor Bastringuette! The fellow often beats you, I suppose, doesn't he?"

"Beat me!" cried the girl, contracting her heavy eyebrows. "When a man beats me, it will be because I have no teeth left to eat his eyes out, and no nails to tear his nose. You think that a man beats his mistress, just because he's a messenger! Oh, yes! that's all very nice, but it ain't our style. We ain't brutes, just because we belong to the common people. It's much more likely to be you who amuse yourself striking women! The men who wear jackets ain't always the meanest curs. There are some vile hearts under fine coats."

Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir seemed far from pleased by this apostrophe; he bit his lip, and there was something very like a threat in the look he gave the girl; but she sustained it without the slightest evidence of emotion.

Tobie, enchanted to find that she paid no further attention to him, and that somebody else was now the object of her sarcasms, twirled his cane like a drum-major, and laughed aloud, swaying from side to side as if he were on a tight-rope.

"And then," continued Bastringuette, rearranging her bouquets, "why should you say that Sans-Cravate is a ne'er-do-well? What has he ever done to be called that? because he's a bit noisy and quick-tempered and quarrelsome? because he gets a little tight, now and then? A great crime, that! That's what you call doing wrong! A man works, then enjoys himself--is that any more than fair? And all the fine things he's done--no one ever speaks of them, because he don't crow about 'em himself!"

"Oho! so Monsieur Sans-Cravate does fine things, does he?" sneered Célestin. "I've never read of any of them in the newspapers."

"The newspapers! they're great authority! Run by people who lie from New Year's Day to Saint-Sylvestre, and make up a lot of stories without any head or tail, that would drive you crazy if you believed 'em all. That's what happened to my poor mother. She didn't know any better than to stuff her head full of what a lot of papers said. She read 'em in the concierge's room, at all the neighbors', and at the grocer's, and she used to say to us every day: 'Things are going wrong, children; the people are very discontented; there'll be an upset before long, for a body won't be able to sneeze without having to pay a tax to the government, and that will make it very expensive for people with colds in their heads. Bread will go to thirty sous a loaf, and we shan't be able to go out next winter without being murdered, and perhaps worse.'--'Well, then, mother,' I'd say, 'we'll just stay in the house, and eat potatoes if we can't get bread.'--But all that stuff turned her brain, I tell you; she died in six months; and the doctor himself said: 'Your mother died of indigestion caused by _canards_ [ducks],' and the nonsense they stuff the newspapers with is canards. But here I am chattering like a magpie, and that don't sell my flowers."

"Here," said Albert, handing the girl a five-franc piece, "this is for the bunch of violets, which I will keep; for it wouldn't be fair to have made you talk all this time for nothing."

"Ah! thanks, my little darling! you're a nice boy, you are; that makes up for some of those who ain't!"

And Bastringuette went her way along the boulevard, crying:

"Buy flowers, messieurs and mesdames! buy some pretty violets! The spring has come; buy flowers for your ladies!"

"She's no fool," said Albert, looking after her as she walked away; "she is very amusing, and quick at repartee."

"That is to say," rejoined Célestin, "she is one of those people who say whatever comes into their head; and as there may happen to be an occasional witty remark in the midst of a mass of nonsense, it's the fashion to say that such people are very bright. That girl is exceedingly impertinent, and that's the extent of her wit, in my opinion."

"Messieurs," said Albert, "our meeting with Bastringuette interrupted our conversation, which was very interesting, however. We were speaking of Madame Plays, and I proposed to turn over to one of you my appointment for this evening. Are there no takers?"

"Do you make that proposition seriously?" said young Tobie Pigeonnier, patting the gold head of his cane.

"Most seriously, I assure you! I have never been in love with Madame Plays; I paid court to her, purely as a joke, to play a trick on Saint-Clair; but my one desire now is to break with my fair conquest."

"Really, Madame Plays is very attractive!" rejoined Monsieur Tobie, throwing away the end of his cigar; "she's a very fine woman, her face is extremely pretty; and then, you see, I have a penchant for plump women."

"In that case, you would be served to your taste," said Célestin.

"But to take your place at a rendezvous; how the devil can that be arranged?"

"Nothing easier," said Albert. "I am to be at the flower market on Boulevard de la Madeleine--near the church, you know--at half-past eight this evening."

"I know the place very well; I often walk there on market days. Some very distinguished women come there--women in carriages; I have noticed that the flowers were only a pretext, and that they came there for other things than orange blossoms and camellias."

"Very good; Madame Plays will be there. I will give you a little note for her, in which I will say that some unexpected business may detain me a little while, but that I send her one of my friends, whose discretion is unquestionable, and who will escort her to a place where I will join her as soon as I possibly can. With that note, you will go to the rendezvous in my place, you will hand the note to Madame Plays, and take her where you choose, pretending that it is a place selected by me, and that you are to stay with her, for company, until I come. I fail to appear, the lady is furious with me, and you console her. Faith! it seems to me that that will go of itself."

"It's an intrigue all cut and dried for you," said Célestin.

Tobie shook his head; the scheme evidently pleased him, but he seemed to feel that it required reflection.

"Do you think Madame Plays will accept my escort?" he asked; "won't she be angry when she sees that you have let me into the secret of your intrigue with her?"

"Don't be alarmed, my dear Tobie; I know the person I am sending you to; of course, I wouldn't do this with all women; but I know Madame Plays; she's a jade who snaps her fingers at what people may say, and is proud of her conquests. The fair Herminie is almost a man in petticoats."

"The devil! I hope that that is true only with respect to her moral qualities."

"Never fear; physically, she is superbly feminine. Her husband pays no sort of heed to what she does. Indeed, she leads him by the nose. If she should tell him that the obelisk of Luxor had made her a mother, he would believe it, or would pretend to; if she takes a fancy to you, the affair is done."

"Oh! in that case, I have some chance of success. I accept; faith! yes, I accept; I will try the experiment; he who sows, reaps. Sapristi! no one can deny that we are sad rakes; I have several mistresses already, but the fair Plays tempts me."

"I give you my word that she is a very agreeable woman--pretty face, well built, solid as a rock! in short, everything that can tempt an amateur. If I had nothing else in my head just now, I would not have left her so quickly.--So it's a bargain. Now, I must give you the note you are to hand her. It is exactly like giving a letter of recommendation."

Little Tobie was enchanted; he laughed aloud, he walked with a swagger, and twirled his cane; in the extravagance of his delight, he seemed disposed to leap and turn somersaults on the boulevard; so that Célestin said to him:

"I say, young Pigeonnier, just calm down a bit; anyone would think, to see your insane joy, that you had never had a love affair."

"Oho! I have no lack of them, I assure you; I have my choice every day; but this will be such an amusing experience! Ha! ha! ha! to take another man's place! ha! ha! it is delicious!"

"There is nothing commoner than that; it's an old opéra-comique idea. Now, messieurs, I propose that we dine together. We have begun the day well, we must finish it as well. We will dine at the Maison-Dorée. Mouillot and Balivan will dine with us; they are two good fellows, as you know, and we shall find them at the Passage des Panoramas at half-past five; I have an appointment with them. Tobie does not meet his charmer until eight; so that he will have plenty of time to dine. Then we will have a little game of bouillotte at the restaurant, and Tobie will come back and tell us the result of his adventure."

"Good! I agree!" cried Albert; "especially as I have had hard luck lately at bouillotte. That Mouillot is a lucky devil; he always wins, and he owes me a terrible revenge.--Well, Tobie, doesn't the plan suit you? You often say: 'We must dine together, and have a little spree;' but when we try to fix a day, you never can. Here is a good chance, it seems to me. My dear fellow, if you want to succeed with Madame Plays, I warn you that you must act a little cavalierly."

Tobie seemed to hesitate for a moment, but at last he struck the ground with his cane and cried:

"Well, I accept! yes, let us dine together, and make the day complete! feasting! cards! women! that's my idea of life! Ah! what libertines we are!"

"Now, messieurs," said Albert, "we will step into the café on Passage de l'Opéra, and I will write the note for Madame Plays; and I have another letter to write and send off before dinner."

"And so have I," said Célestin.

"And I," said Tobie; "I have an important errand to be done."

"Let us go, then."

The three young men entered the café at the corner of the boulevard and the Passage de l'Opéra, and ordered writing materials, together with three glasses of madeira. Each of the three wrote very busily. Albert let his pen run over the paper, but it seemed not to travel fast enough to express the thoughts which thronged the mind of him who guided it. Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir wrote more slowly, but, from the expression of his face, it was evident that he was carefully considering his words. As for Tobie Pigeonnier, he wrote the least rapidly of the three, either because his ideas did not come readily, or because his subject was a difficult one to treat; he scratched his forehead, looked up at the ceiling, wrote two words, stopped, ran his hand through his hair, and began again; his letter caused him much toil, but he did not confine himself to a single one; after sealing the first, he at once began another. Albert and Célestin, who had finished theirs long before, said to him:

"Well, Pigeonnier, how many letters are you writing? will this be a long one?"

"One moment, messieurs; let me finish this one, I beg; it is very important. You see, in order to dine with you, I have to miss two most seductive appointments. The poor little women! they will be in despair, but, at all events, I shall not keep them waiting for me in the cold. Just a word of love, and I shall have finished."

"Parbleu! that's not hard to find. Put _yours for life_, and let it go at that."

"That is too common; I am going to write something different."

Monsieur Tobie finished his correspondence at last. Albert paid the waiter, and the three young men rose and left the café.

"The next thing is to send my letters," said Tobie.

"Oh! I have my regular messenger--Sans-Cravate," said Albert; "he is always at the corner of Rue du Helder, close by; let us go there."

"For my part," said Célestin, "I employ his comrade, Jean Ficelle; he's a very intelligent fellow. There's a third one, whose name is Paul, I think, who stands with them; he will do Tobie's errand."

"All right, messieurs," said Pigeonnier. "Let us go and find our messengers. By the way--how about my letter for the fair Herminie?"

"Faith! I forgot to write it; but we have time enough, I'll write it at the restaurant; we must hurry, it's five o'clock now."

III

THE MESSENGERS

On Rue du Helder, near the boulevard, in front of a handsome house, three street messengers had their regular stand.

On the afternoon of which we are writing, all three were at their post. One lay at full length on his _crochets_, which he had placed on the ground, horizontally, in such wise as to form a sort of cot-bed; it was rather narrow, but its occupant had become so accustomed to it that he had no difficulty in maintaining his place, and never fell over the side.

Another was sitting on a stone bench against the house. He was smoking a pipe, and had in his hands a disgustingly greasy and dirty pack of cards, with which he was apparently practising the false cut and divers other tricks of that sort.

The third messenger was on his feet, leaning against the wall, with his eyes fixed on the topmost floor of a high building almost opposite.

The man lying on the _crochets_ seemed to be in the prime of life; he was of medium height, but the breadth of his shoulders and the size of the muscles in his sinewy limbs pointed him out as a man with whom it would be dangerous to quarrel. His face was frank and good-humored; his small, light blue eyes expressed recklessness and merriment; his nose was rather large, and sometimes red at the end; his full lips denoted a kindly and obliging disposition; and his abundant light hair, which blew about at the pleasure of the wind, surmounted a high forehead, wherein the brain must have had ample room to exercise its faculties.

He was dressed like most messengers,--a jacket and loose trousers; but he wore no neckerchief; his shirt, fastened by a button, disclosed a neck much whiter than one would have supposed from the color of his hands and face. The invariable habit of wearing nothing about his neck at any season of the year, even when the cold was most severe, was responsible for the sobriquet of _Sans-Cravate_, which had come to be the only name by which the messenger was known to the persons who employed him, and even to most of his friends.

The person seated on the stone bench, who seemed intent upon his cards, was short, and heavily pock-marked; his hair was dark brown and very thick, and hung low over a narrow forehead; the man's face indicated intelligence and cunning, and the evil expression of his gray eyes seemed to forbid the judgment we are accustomed to form of a person with a low forehead. A small nose, much too retroussé, tightly closed lips, and a protruding chin, made of Monsieur Jean Ficelle a decidedly ugly individual, and one who would by no means inspire the confidence which we like to feel in a messenger, unless his unusual mobility of feature were successful in deceiving those who tried to read his thoughts.

The third messenger, who stood against the wall, with his eyes constantly fixed on the attics of the opposite house, was a tall, slender young man of graceful figure; although he also wore loose trousers and a jacket, there was in his bearing an indefinable something, which, while perhaps it could not be called refinement, distinguished it from the vulgar slouchiness of his companions; and as, generally speaking, a person's face almost always fulfils the promise of his bearing, so this young man, whose features were regular and attractive, had not the usual expression of those of his calling. A high, well-shaped forehead; beautiful black hair, brushed aside with a lack of coquetry that was not without charm; brown eyes, with a tender and melancholy expression; a mouth of an ordinary type, supplied with handsome teeth; an oval face, almost always pale, but indicative of a delicate constitution rather than of ill health--such was that one of the three messengers who was known as Paul, and who, in truth, seemed but ill adapted for his trade.

"If Bastringuette hasn't sold her violets, I shall have a chance to sup in my mind's eye to-day. Business is dull, but the appetite keeps right along. _Crédié!_ what a lot of rooms there are to let in my belly! and unfurnished lodgings in my stomach! How the devil am I to furnish it all?

"'Dip your bread, Marie, dip your bread, Dip your bread in clear water!'

We'll sing that song for our supper, and we shan't be troubled with indigestion. But Bastringuette don't like that tune--nor do I, for that matter."

It was Sans-Cravate who made these reflections aloud, as he turned over on his _crochets_. After a moment's silence, he continued:

"If a fellow hadn't his cutty to comfort him when his pocket's empty, how he would curse his destiny! Bah! what's the odds! Am I going to have an attack of the dismals? am I going to join the ranks of the snivellers? Never! It don't bring in a sou to be sad; and then, as another song says, which I like much better:

"'Courage! courage! One's friends are always by!'

"Isn't that so, boys? Well! don't all answer at once; I shouldn't know you if you did."

As he spoke, Sans-Cravate turned and looked at his comrades. He shrugged his shoulders when he saw Jean Ficelle playing with his cards, and muttered:

"The deuce! there's Jean Ficelle practising his tricks! Cards are his vocation. But damn me if I ever play piquet with you again! Infernal Ficelle![A] you are too well named."

The person addressed paid no attention, he was so engrossed by his cards. Thereupon Sans-Cravate turned to Paul and said, with a smile:

"Ah! this is a bird of another color. 'Tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round! And here's a young spark as has laid in a good stock of it. Well, Paul, even if you give yourself a stiff neck standing like that, with your head in the air, you won't succeed in opening the windows on the fourth floor, if Mademoiselle Dumanchon, the dressmaker, wants 'em to stay shut. Mademoiselle Dumanchon don't let her girls go out to walk the streets; indeed, she has plenty of work, because, they say, she knows her business. She makes dresses that give a bust to women without any, and that hide the hips of those who have too much. That's genuine talent! I am surprised that she lives on the fourth floor; to be sure, lodgings in this quarter are pretty high.--Come, Paul, tell me, haven't you seen your little girl to-day?"

The young messenger who was looking in the air turned to Sans-Cravate and replied:

"My little girl? What do you mean? I don't understand you."

"Oh, well! if we're going to play the stupid, if we have secrets from our friends--that's a different matter, and you'd better say so. Do you suppose I don't know that you're in love with one of the dressmaker's apprentices, a pretty little thing named Elina, who takes short, quick steps when she passes us, which doesn't prevent her casting a sly glance in your direction?"

"Really, Sans-Cravate! do you think she looks at me when she passes?"

"You don't see her yourself, I suppose, you fox?"

"Oh! I assure you, Sans-Cravate, that I have never said a word to that young woman which could make her suspect that I dare to think of her. I think her very pretty, that is true; and then, she is so pleasant and so courteous when she gives me an errand to do! There are so many people who treat us messengers as if we were brutes or savages!"

"When anybody takes that tone with me, I pay him back in his own coin. If people are decent, I am amiable; if they're insolent, then I'm brutal! and be damned to 'em!"

"But when one is obliged to work for his living, he must work for everybody."

"Not at all! I choose my patrons. Indeed, I very often fold my arms."

"Several times Mademoiselle Elina has taken me with her to carry boxes, and she always talks to me so kindly---- Ah! it makes me forget that I am only a poor messenger."

"In short, you are in love with the girl; that's the whole story."

"Oh, no! Sans-Cravate, you're mistaken; and, anyway, what good would it do me to love that charming creature? Can a man of my class, one of the common people, presume to raise his eyes to someone who will not come down to his level?"

"Look you, a man always presumes, and does his reasoning afterward. And then, it don't seem to me that a dressmaker's apprentice is such a very great personage; and, even if you are a messenger, aren't you as good a man as another? If a duchess would have me, I'd adore her, duchess and all.--Great God! if Bastringuette should hear me, she'd make me go without tobacco."

"Yes," said Paul, with a sigh, "a messenger's trade requires that he be an honest man. I don't blush for my calling, I assure you. And yet, there was a time when I was justified in hoping that I might occupy a higher station. A most excellent man, happening to see me, when I was ten years old, in the charitable institution where I was brought up, took a fancy to me and offered to take charge of me, as he needed someone to do errands for him. Monsieur Desroches was a respectable tradesman, and his proposition was thankfully accepted. I left that refuge of the unfortunate, where I had passed my childhood, and went to live with my new patron, in the Marais. As he was satisfied with the zeal and promptitude with which I did the errands he gave me to do, Monsieur Desroches had me taught to read and write and cipher, and employed me in his office; and every day he would give me a friendly tap on the shoulder, and say: 'You're doing well, Paul; keep on, and you'll make your way.'"

"Good! He was what I call a fine old cove! And that's how it is that you know so much, and that you're so much better set up than the rest of us. Well, why didn't you stay with that fine old fellow? I suppose you played some prank or other. _Dame!_ boys will be boys!"

"Oh, no! not that at all! I would never have left good Monsieur Desroches. But after I had lived with him eight years, he and his wife treating me like their own child, my benefactor was utterly ruined by a bad failure; and the poor man died of grief, because he was compelled to ask for time to pay his notes."

"Sapristi! you ought to have kept some of that man's seed. His kind are not common in the market."

"I was eighteen years old at that time. I tried to find a place, to get into some business house; but I couldn't find anything. However, I had to earn money, for one must live; so I soon made up my mind: I bought a pair of _crochets_ and started in as a messenger."

"And you did well. There is no foolish trade, as one of the old troubadours said! But how did you happen to come into this quarter instead of staying in the Marais, where you were known?"

"That was just the reason. People there had seen me every day, dressed--I might almost say, fashionably, and I didn't care to have them see me in this jacket. For, I tell you, Sans-Cravate, although you may set your mind on making the best of it, there are times when you can't help remembering the past."

"I understand your feeling, especially as I myself---- Mine is another kind; but the idea's the same. I mean that I sometimes think of my father, and my poor mother, and my sister Adeline, or Liline, as I call her--such a pretty creature she is. Ah! I might have stayed with them all, in our little village in Auvergne. My father often said to me: 'Stay with us, Étienne (they didn't call me _Sans-Cravate_ there), stay with us and take care of my little farm. We have enough to live on. What are you going to do in Paris?'--But, damnation! my feet itched; I couldn't stay still. I said to my father: 'Let me go; I mean to make my fortune, and bring back a big marriage portion for Liline.'--So he let me go, and it's amazing how I pile up the money! I never have a sou! I tell you, Paul, when I think of that, I am ashamed of myself; I would give myself a good thrashing, if I could."

"Don't get excited, my dear Sans-Cravate; if your father has enough to live on, of course he doesn't count on you."

"I went to see them two years and a half ago; I knew it would please father, and I myself was glad enough to see 'em all and give 'em a kiss. I had succeeded in saving thirty francs, and I said to myself: 'With thirty francs and a good stick, I can walk home as comfortably as you please.' So I started; but Jean Ficelle started with me, and the second day my money was all gone. However, I got there after a while. I saw my sister, who was fifteen then--I am six years older than she is; she is almighty pretty, and such fine manners and language! There's a Madame de Clermont, who has taken a fancy to her and often sends for her to go and visit her. Then my poor father is left all alone in the village. But he says: 'I can't interfere with what that lady chooses to do for my child's good.'--He hoped I would stay with him, but I couldn't. When a man has had a taste of this rascally Paris, can he make up his mind to live in a village?--I said to my father: 'I am in a fair way to get rich; I must go back to Paris, or else I shall miss my opportunity; I will come back when I have money enough.'--And off I went; and when I got here, my trousers were torn so that you could see my posterior; and at the barrier, they thought I was trying to smuggle, and ran after me, singing out: 'What are you hiding there?'--'I'm hiding nothing,' says I; 'on the contrary, I'm showing too much; collect a duty on it, if you choose.'--And---- Well, you don't seem to be listening. So much for talking to a lover; it's the same as talking to yourself."

While Sans-Cravate was speaking, Paul had turned his eyes toward the dressmaker's windows again, and seemed, in fact, to have ceased to listen to his comrade. But at that moment the third messenger, who had not spoken, uttered a grunt of satisfaction and jumped up from the bench, crying:

"I have it, I have done it; oh! I have it as neat as you please!"

"What is it that you have, Jean Ficelle?" asked Sans-Cravate.

The person addressed raised his head and replied, with a disdainful glance at his comrades:

"Oh! something that I can use to take greenhorns in."

"Another new game, I'll bet; for you're a very devil of a gambler!"

"Well, why not? Games of chance are tabooed in Paris, but the sharks and blacklegs in good society find a way to play, all the same. They have secret meetings, where they can ruin themselves as nice as you please, on the pretence of having a little dance."

"How do you know?"

"Oh! I know everything. Well, then, why shouldn't the small fry, the less select society, have the same chance? But they go about it more openly. The men who run games of chance set them up in the open air, all ready to cut stakes at sight of a policeman or a detective. You don't know anything about it, you fellows; you are greenhorns. Just listen to me a minute, for your instruction."

"A nice kind of instruction we are likely to get from you, I fancy."

"But it's always a help, even if it's only to keep you from being taken in by sharpers.--Come, Sans-Cravate, come and sit down with me."

Sans-Cravate concluded to take his seat on the stone bench, beside Jean Ficelle, who continued, with the important air of one who considers himself much more intelligent than those to whom he speaks:

"Near the barriers, under the arches of the bridges, on the outer boulevards, and in the neighborhood of the wine market, are the places where you will usually find the men in blouses and plain caps who are called _croupiers_, which means: men who run a game. In the summertime, if you should go and look under the arches of the bridge over the canal near Pont d'Austerlitz, you would see a number of games in full blast. You see groups of men--first, the _croupiers_ and their confederates (for wherever there's games of chance, there's confederates); then, peasants, countrymen, and workmen with their loaves under their arms; these are the pigeons, who let themselves be plucked by the bait of a possible gain."

"What a lot this Jean Ficelle knows!--You seem to have made a study of it!"

"In my own interest, in order not to be a pigeon! They play _biribi_, _table-basse_, _jarretières_, _trois noix_, and sometimes _loto_; but the first three are played most. The game of _jarretières_, you know, consists in sticking a pin into the edge of a piece of cloth. The man who runs the game always uses the skirt of his frock-coat. If I had one on, I'd show you how it's done. He lifts up one corner, presses it very tight, and holds it out to you in such a way that to stick a pin into the edge seems to be the simplest thing in the world."

"Well?"

"But not much; because the _croupier_, when he picks up the hem of his coat, is smart enough to turn it under; so that you always stick your pin into the middle of the cloth when you think you're sticking it into the edge."

"I'd stick it into his ugly mug!--And _table-basse_, what's that?"

"You see a little table with a lot of little, numbered holes. They hand you a dicebox, with some balls; you throw the balls on the table at random, and they roll into the holes; then they add up the numbers and give you the prize corresponding to the total. The big prizes are never won; you never get the silver watch, the piece of plate, or the drinking cup, that they show to entice you; but a flint and steel, or a save-all--that's all your twenty sous ever wins."

"Very pretty, indeed! a choice lot they must be! But what did you mean just now when you sung out: 'I've got it! I know how it's done!'"

"Oh! that's the most popular of all the games--_biribi_."

"_Biribi?_"

"I'll show you that; you play it with just three cards, see; and one of 'em's _biribi_. Look, the ace of hearts! Now, to win, all you have to do is guess where _biribi_ is. But the _croupier's_ skill consists in always showing you the under card, and that is always _biribi_; then he moves his cards this way and that, and you think you can follow it with your eyes. Like this: now, follow the ace of hearts, follow it carefully; do you know which of the three it is now?"

Sans-Cravate, who had kept his eyes on the cards, placed his hand on one of them, saying:

"This is the ace of hearts."

"How much do you bet?"

"A glass of beer."

"Done!"

Jean Ficelle turned the card and showed his wondering comrade that it was not _biribi_.

Sans-Cravate was stupefied. Jean Ficelle repeated the trick twice, and won two more glasses of beer.

"Are you a sorcerer?" cried the other.

"Oh, no! But you don't see that, when I move the cards about, I always throw the one that's on top, although I make believe to throw the one on the bottom. That's how they gull the peasant, who thinks he hasn't taken his eyes off _biribi_. But if by any chance the pigeon guesses right, just when he's going to put his hand on the card which is really _biribi_, a confederate, who is always on hand, says to him: 'Not that one, my man; the other one, to the left. I am sure of it, and, to prove it, I'll bet a hundred sous.' The peasant is persuaded by the confederate's confidence, he takes up the card on which the other has bet five francs, and he is _smoked_.--I say there, you man of sighs, come and play _biribi_ with us a while."

Paul glanced at the cards and shook his head.

"I don't care for card playing," he said.

"We must kill time, especially when we've nothing to do. Come and play for a glass of beer--that won't ruin you."

"I don't want to play."

"Humph! what a poor cuss that fellow is!" said Jean Ficelle, turning back to Sans-Cravate. "He'll never spend a sou with his friends. I don't call that being a man, myself."

"Paul is more sensible, wiser, than we are; he saves his money and he does well."

"Saves his money--hum! I don't feel so sure what he does with his money; he gets mighty little good out of it. He's pale as an egg, and his jacket's all patched at the elbows. _Dame!_ perhaps he spends it all to seduce his girl. Women aren't to be caught with nothing but sighs. They like to have money spent on 'em--dressmakers, especially. They say that they have to have dinners and theatre tickets and jewelry. Little Elina probably spends it all for him. She has the look of a sly little coquette----"

On hearing Elina's name, Paul ran up to Jean Ficelle, seized his left arm, and shook it roughly.

"What's that you say?" he exclaimed. "You dare to talk about Mademoiselle Elina! If I am not mistaken, you had the effrontery to make remarks about that young lady! Be careful, Jean! I am not ill-tempered; but if you should be unlucky enough to insult her, why, I would stamp on you as I do on these cards!"

"Let alone of me, I say! Will you let alone of me? Stupid fool--to walk on my cards!"

"A terrible calamity! A fine business for a messenger, isn't it? to learn thieves' and blacklegs' tricks, to study ways of cheating other people! Instead of handling cards so skilfully, you would do much better to mend your _crochets_ and your saw. But you prefer to play cards!"

"Ah, ça! isn't it about time for the fellow to stop? What airs he puts on! and why, I should like to know! A miserable foundling, with no father nor mother--and he undertakes to preach to other people! Go and hunt up your parents--that would be a better business for you."

Paul lowered his eyes at the word _foundling_, and his face assumed an expression of profound sadness; he released his hold on Jean's arm, and, stepping back to the wall, stood leaning against it without speaking a word.

But Sans-Cravate, who knew that nothing wounded Paul so deeply as to be reminded that he had been abandoned by his parents, and who saw the sorrowful expression of his face, rose abruptly and shook his clenched fist under Jean Ficelle's nose, saying:

"You're a miserable cur! and if your nose wasn't so turned-up already that I can see your brain, I'd turn it up a little more for you. You know that the poor fellow is unhappy because he knows nothing about his family; but it isn't any crime, and it's better to have no family at all than to come of low-lived stock! But it hurts him when anyone speaks of it; and you remind him of it on purpose! It was a mean, dirty trick! I have a good mind to thrash you. Come, try a little bout with me; I'll give you a good dust bath, to cool you off."

Sans-Cravate had already seized Jean about the waist; but Paul hastened to intervene, and forced Sans-Cravate to release his hold.

"I don't want you to fight my battles," he said. "When I choose to teach Jean a lesson, I can do it myself all right. A man is always strong when he is not afraid. When he called me a foundling, he said no more than the truth, and I have no right to thrash him for that. But let him beware how he insults Mademoiselle Elina, or makes such remarks as he made just now about dressmakers--for then he would have a chance to see what my arm weighs."

Jean Ficelle eyed Paul contemptuously, and muttered, with a shrug:

"Yes, he's about as strong as a flea; he can't carry a commode upstairs!"

But a glance from Sans-Cravate made him change his tone on the instant, and he added, with an affectation of good humor:

"But why does he throw my cards on the ground? if it amuses me to play _biribi_, ain't I at liberty to do it? _Vive la charte!_ When all's said and done, Sans-Cravate, you owe me three glasses of beer; are you going to pay them?"

"With what, I wonder? I wouldn't ask anything better than to rinse my gullet, for I'm dried up with thirst; but I haven't a _monaco_!"

Thereupon Jean Ficelle went up to Sans-Cravate, and whispered in his ear, with a glance at Paul:

"Borrow a little tin of him; you're a friend of his, and friends always lend to each other. If I had any, it would be at your service; but I'm as strapped as you are."

"Paul has no more than the rest of us," replied Sans-Cravate, in an undertone; "I saw him breakfasting this morning on an old dry crust and a glass of cocoa! When a man eats a meal like that, it means that he ain't lined with gold."

"But what does he do with his money, then? for he earns more than we do; his luck is indecent. As all the women of the quarter think he's good-looking, they always choose him to do their errands; the windfalls pass us by, and are all for him. So he must have money, for he never spends any; he always refuses to play cards, or drink, or go to the wine shop. I tell you again, he's a mean cuss, who saves up his money, like the miser he is!"

"There you go again! Jean Ficelle, you're spoiling for a thrashing. Paul is my friend, and I like him; let him do what he pleases with his money, it's none of our business. One thing I'm sure of is that he's a fine fellow, for I saw him one evening run after a gentleman and give him back a twenty-franc piece he'd given him by mistake for twenty sous. I'm not sure you'd do as much, Biribi."

"Bah! who knows! You're stuck on that greenhorn; and yet, if I chose to be mean, I could tell you some things about him that would open your eyes; but you see things crooked----"

"What are you talking about? More nonsense, I'll bet."

Jean Ficelle pretended to hesitate and to reflect as to whether he should say anything more, but at that moment three young men turned into Rue du Helder from the boulevard and walked toward the messengers.

"Ah! here come customers!" cried Sans-Cravate; "I shall have some supper to-night!"

IV

DIVERS COMMISSIONS

Albert, Célestin, and Tobie walked toward the messengers, while Sans-Cravate went forward to meet Albert, who employed him regularly and always paid him handsomely; so that the young Auvergnat felt a strong liking for the young man, whose free and easy manners and fascinating air pleased him mightily.

"There's a young man who knows what's what, who amuses himself and enjoys life!" he would exclaim. "_Crédié!_ if I had his figure and his money, that's the kind of a life I'd like to lead! Three or four mistresses at once! that must be rather pleasant and amusing! a fellow would have no time to be bored."

So it was that Sans-Cravate listened with a smile on his lips and with interest and attention to what Albert said after leading him aside:

"Take this letter and carry it to Madame Baldimer, Rue Neuve-Vivienne; the address is on the envelope. I think that she is not at home; but if by any chance she is, you will ask for an answer; if not, go there again, about eight o'clock, to get the answer; and bring it to me at the Maison-Dorée restaurant, where I shall be at that time."

"Very good, monsieur. By the way, can I go up to the lady's apartment?"

"Yes, yes. You need take no precautions; there's no father, or husband, or aunt. And, Sans-Cravate, go to my house also, on Rue Caumartin, and ask the concierge if there are any letters for me; if there are, he'll give them to you, for he knows you; and you will bring them to me at the same place."

"Very good, monsieur; I understand."

Albert placed a five-franc piece in Sans-Cravate's hand, and left him.

Meanwhile, Célestin de Valnoir had taken Jean Ficelle, who was his favorite messenger, aside and handed him a letter, saying in a very low tone, after looking about to make sure that nobody could hear:

"Carry this note to Madame Baldimer--the lady to whose house I have sent you several times."

"Yes, monsieur, I know; I will go upstairs, as usual, and ask for Mamzelle Rosa, the lady's-maid, saying that I come from you."

"Exactly. And if Madame Baldimer is not at home, Rosa will tell you where you can find her; go there, and bring me the lady's answer at the Maison-Dorée restaurant, where I shall dine. I will speak to the waiter, and he will let me know when you arrive."

"Very good, monsieur."

"By the way, it is possible that the gentleman who has just employed your comrade Sans-Cravate may be sending him also to Madame Baldimer's. As he must not know that I am sending you there, be prudent; let Sans-Cravate go first, and don't go in until he has come out."

"Never fear; I didn't get the sobriquet of Ficelle for nothing. He shall not know where I am going."

"Very well."

Célestin turned his back on the messenger, and joined Albert, who had returned to the boulevard.

Tobie Pigeonnier, meanwhile, had led Paul under a porte cochère, and there, after making sure that he was so far away from his two friends that they could not hear him, he said to the messenger:

"My boy, are you clever, faithful, and intelligent?"

Paul gazed in surprise at the little fellow who asked him the question with an air of mystery, as if he were about to admit him to the secret of a conspiracy.

"As to being faithful, monsieur," he replied, "it is my duty; I should be doubly guilty in my calling, if I betrayed the confidence of those who are good enough to employ me. At all events, monsieur, I am well known in the quarter, and you can inquire about me. As to my cleverness and intelligence, I have, as a general rule, had no difficulty in carrying out my instructions."

"Good, very good. I see that you are not too dull; you are the man for me, for I detest dull-witted people. Listen to me with the closest attention; stay--let us go a little farther; I have reasons for not wanting those gentlemen to hear what I have to say to you. There--let us stop in this corner. You will go---- By the way, what is your name?"

"Paul, monsieur."

"Paul; very good. You will go to the Temple, Paul, to the Temple Market--you know--where they sell clothing and linen for both sexes, and footwear too."

"I know the place, monsieur."

"You will go into the market, near the rotunda, where the stalls are,--they are called _ayons_,--to the part occupied by the milliners."

"Does monsieur mean the dealers in old hats?"

"Old hats!--why, they sell new ones too, and wreaths of flowers, almost new, and ladies' caps--in fact, all the pretty gewgaws that women always dote on. You will ask for Madame Abraham--she is well known--she is one of the largest dealers in the place."

"Madame Abraham; very well, monsieur."

"You will hand her this letter. Do you know how to read?"

Paul could not restrain a faint smile as he replied:

"Oh! yes, monsieur; very well."

"So much the better; I am very glad, because, in that case, you won't make any blunder."

But as he was not fully convinced that the messenger had told him the truth, Monsieur Tobie held up the letter he was about to give him, and said:

"What does that say?"

"_To Madame Agar Abraham, wholesale milliner, Marché du Temple._"

"That's right, that's quite right; you read perfectly. You will give this letter, then, to Madame Abraham, and she will hand you some money for me; I have funds invested in her business. You will take the money, and--and----"

At that point, Tobie, seeing that a gentleman and lady were passing, raised his voice almost to a shout, and threw his head back and his chest forward:

"You will bring it to me at the Maison-Dorée, where I dine to-night. I dine at the Maison-Dorée; it is my favorite restaurant. You will ask the waiter for Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier. I am very well known at the Maison-Dorée."

"I understand, monsieur."

The people who were passing being out of earshot, the stout youth continued in an undertone:

"One moment, Paul; that is not all. If by any chance--for we must provide for everything--if Madame Abraham should not give you any money for me--merchants are sometimes a little short--if, I say, Madame Abraham should give you nothing for me, then, and only then, you will go to the house where I live, on Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins--the address is on this other letter, and you know how to read. You will go there and give this letter to my concierge, Madame Pluchonneau,--the name is on the envelope,--and tell her you will wait for an answer. You may be obliged to wait some time, for I have told my concierge to do an errand for me. But you will wait in her lodge, she has a very fine lodge. Then my concierge, when she returns, will hand you some money, which you will bring to the Maison-Dorée."

"Very good, monsieur."

"You are sure that you understand, messenger? If you receive money from Madame Abraham, who will doubtless hand you with it a memorandum of the amount, then it will not be necessary to go to my house, and you will bring back the letter for Madame Pluchonneau. But if you get nothing at the Temple, then go to Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins."

"I understand perfectly, monsieur."

"Off with you, young Paul! You can send word to me by the waiter; don't give me my answer before those other gentlemen. Secrecy, above all things!"

"Very good, monsieur."

"Go! I will give you a handsome _pourboire._"

And Tobie Pigeonnier returned to the boulevard and joined his friends, who shouted to him when he came in sight:

"Come on! What a long while it takes you to send a message to your charmers!"

"Here I am, messieurs. Oh! a man has to show some consideration. Let us be fickle, if you will, but we must not forget to be gallant; that is my nature."

While the young men walked away, the messengers came together again. Sans-Cravate held up the five-franc piece he had received, crying:

"Paid in advance! a cart-wheel! what do you think of that! There's a generous young man for you! I would fight for him."

"But you probably have got to go a long way for him," said Jean Ficelle, with affected indifference.

"Oh, no! nothing at all. First to Rue Neuve-Vivienne--only two steps; then to his house on Rue Caumartin, and from there to the Maison-Dorée. It's all right in the quarter."

Jean Ficelle's eyes twinkled when he learned that Sans-Cravate was going to Rue Neuve-Vivienne, and he made haste to say:

"I have got to go much farther than that--Faubourg Saint-Honoré--and I ain't paid in advance."

"And I, too," said Paul, placing his _crochets_ behind a porte cochère, "have got a long way to go, and I'm afraid it will take a long while."

"Where are you going?" asked Jean Ficelle.

"The gentleman who employed me told me not to talk; so it doesn't seem to me that I ought to tell where he sends me."

"Bah! you sneak!" muttered Jean, with a shrug.

"Well, my friends," said Sans-Cravate, as he donned his fur cap, "the day ends well. I don't know whether you'll be paid as generously as me; but, at all events, I'll treat; let's have supper together to-night at my regular little wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare. Does that hit you?"

"It does me," replied Jean Ficelle; "we'll meet there to-night, then; it's agreed."

"I can't," said Paul; "I have business this evening; I must go to see a certain person, a long way from here, and----"

"Nonsense, Paul! I won't listen to such reasons as that; you can attend to your business to-morrow. I want you to have supper with us. I've invited you two or three times, and you always refuse. _Crédié!_ if you don't come to-night, I shall think you're proud, and afraid of lowering yourself by sitting at the same table with me."

"Proud! proud of what, for God's sake?" muttered Jean, in so low a tone that Paul could not hear him. The latter hesitated a moment before replying:

"Oh! Sans-Cravate, you surely can't think that I am proud. Am I not a messenger, like you?"

"Very well, then; you'll come, that's settled. I must be off and do my errands. By the way, friends, if one of you sees Bastringuette before I do, just tell her where we sup. If we should feast without her, I should be a dead man to-morrow."

As he spoke, Sans-Cravate started off along the boulevard. Jean Ficelle waited a short time, then took the same direction, muttering:

"To be afraid that a woman will scold you, and not dare to treat yourself without her! that must be pleasant, on my word! And he calls himself a man! I call him a milksop. The real men aren't those who strike the hardest--but the sly dogs who know how to make dupes."

Monsieur Jean Ficelle had left the stand and Paul was about to follow his example, after a parting glance at the house in which the dressmaker lived, when a young woman with fair hair, blue eyes, and smiling red lips came out through the porte cochère, and, having nimbly crossed the gutter, walked toward the young messenger. She wore a coarse linen dress, and a black apron fastened about her waist by a silk cord; on her head was a very simple cap, unadorned with flowers or ribbons; but the simplicity of her costume did not prevent people from noticing her and, in many cases, from turning to glance after her; for her face was very pleasant to look upon, her figure perfectly proportioned, her carriage graceful, her gait light and springy; in a word, there was in her whole aspect that indefinable something which at once attracts and captivates the eye: a fortunate gift of nature, which carries with it all other gifts in the case of the women who possess it. I say _women_, because, in general, the _something_ in question applies to women rather than to men. It is that indefinable something which compels us to submit to the empire of two eyes which do not need to be very large or very beautiful to lead us captive; it is enough if they have that _something._ O ye who possess it, envy not the regular beauties, the Greek or Roman profiles, the correct and faultlessly proportioned features, of your rivals! If you are not of those women whom men admire, you are of those whom they desire, and that is much better.

When he saw the girl coming toward him, Paul stood as if rooted to the spot; he could not go away. He quickly removed his cap, and at the same time lowered his eyes with a timid air, as if he dared not presume to salute the young dressmaker, but desired to manifest his respect for her.

But Elina stopped in front of him and said, with an amiable smile:

"Good-evening, Monsieur Paul! I am very glad to find you."

"Can I be of service to you in any way, mademoiselle? Pray speak; I am at your disposition, day and night, whenever you choose. I am so happy when you are good enough to employ me!"

As he spoke, Paul raised his eyes until they rested on the girl's face, who seemed not at all displeased; but in an instant, as if he repented of his temerity, he hung his head and sighed.

"You are always so obliging, Monsieur Paul, that I thought of you for--listen, it is this: I live with my aunt, Madame Vardeine, who has taken care of me since my parents died; she says that I owe her a great deal of money, although my father left me a little something--fifteen thousand francs, I believe; that isn't a fortune, but still it's enough to live on, and one can be very comfortable with that, if one has a trade too; isn't that so?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; with orderly habits and hard work, one may become rich with that amount of money."

"Do you really think so? It must be very nice to be rich! Well, as I was saying, my aunt is forever telling me that she does everything for me, that I cost her a great deal, that I spend much more than my money brings in--for she is my guardian. But, oh! Monsieur Paul, if you knew what she gives me for my breakfast and dinner, you would say that it was none too much! Luckily, I'm not a glutton, whatever she may say. Ten sous for breakfast and dinner--can one be a glutton with that?"

"No, indeed, mademoiselle. But it is very wrong of your aunt to give you so little for your food. Your money must certainly bring in seven hundred francs a year--which would give you about thirty-nine sous a day to spend. So if she gives you only ten sous for your board, she keeps twenty-nine for your lodging."

"Oh! I think you must be mistaken, Monsieur Paul; my aunt says that my money brings in barely twenty sous a day,--that's a long way from thirty-nine,--and that she has to use some of her own to clothe me."

"I am not mistaken, mademoiselle. I know how to reckon, for I haven't always been a messenger. For eight years, I was employed in a merchant's office, and I worked over figures and accounts all day."

"Really, Monsieur Paul? Ah! I thought---- You don't look like a messenger--like the others. You talk well, and you don't swear. Were you obliged to take up this business?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; my benefactor died, and I had not a sou. As I couldn't find a place, I thought it was better to be a messenger than to idle away my time and live, as so many do, at others' expense."

"You are quite right. After all, there is nothing despicable in being a messenger; you're not a servant, as the girls in our workroom are so fond of calling you. Oh! they say that to make me furious, because I always stand up for you."

"Stand up for me? You say that you sometimes talk about me in your workroom?"

Mademoiselle Elina blushed as she replied:

"Oh!--that is to say--we talk about messengers in general--and as we have employed you several times---- But I stand chattering here, when I came down to buy something at the linen draper's, and I haven't told you yet what I wanted to ask you. My aunt says that I talk too much. As far as that goes, perhaps she is right; it's such fun to talk--not with everybody, of course, but with people who--listen to you--and--that is to say---- Mon Dieu! it seems to me that I am getting all mixed up, and don't know what I am saying."

Paul ventured to glance at the pretty dressmaker once more. Her face wore such a comical expression, as she twisted a corner of her apron in her hands, that the young man smiled involuntarily, and his smile was reflected on Elina's lips; for between two persons who are sympathetic a smile is like a train of powder: the spark is hardly applied at one end before it reaches the other.

"I wanted to ask you, Monsieur Paul, if you could come and help me move to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; with great pleasure."

"You must come very early, so that it can be all done before it is time for me to go to my work."

"I will come as early as you wish, mademoiselle. Where are you going to move?"

"Oh! in the same house. We live on Rue Taitbout, you know--for you have sometimes been kind enough to carry my bundles home for me, because, you said, they were too heavy for a young girl."

"It was a very great pleasure to me, mademoiselle. I am so happy when you deign to permit me--when I can--when I have the honor----"

Paul stopped, for he found that he too was getting confused; but Elina did not seem surprised; on the contrary, was it not natural that he should have the same experience that she had had a moment before? should not the same causes always produce the same effects?

"You see, Monsieur Paul, my aunt has found another apartment on the same floor, the fourth, which isn't so dear, and where she says we shall be quite as comfortable. She herself certainly will be, for she has a room as large as her other one, with a splendid fireplace. But it isn't the same with me; where we are now, I have a little room opening on the little hallway. It's pretty small; just big enough for my bed, a commode that was my mother's, two chairs, and a little table covered with red leather, which father used for a desk. Those things are all that I have that belonged to my parents, and I think a great deal of them. Well! where we're going to-morrow, there's nothing for me but a little box of a place, which was once part of a dark room used as a hall; and I never shall be able to get my commode and table into it. But my aunt declares that I shall be better off, that I shall be warmer, and that it's very healthy to sleep in a loft."

"Your aunt is very blameworthy, mademoiselle, to make you sleep in a loft, for it is very unhealthy, I say. You have the right to demand a room for yourself. She must be very miserly. If you like, I will speak to her, and make her understand that she mustn't treat you so cruelly, that you are not a burden to her, far from it, but----"

"Oh! no, no, Monsieur Paul; if my aunt knew that I had dared to complain of her, she would be angry and would scold me. No, you mustn't say anything to her. After all, what difference does it make if I haven't a room of my own? I am at home so little; I go away at eight in the morning to my work, and I don't leave the workroom till nine at night, sometimes later, when there's a press of work. So you see I am hardly ever in my room except to sleep, and at my age one can sleep soundly anywhere. And then, my aunt isn't really unkind, only she always thinks of herself first. Oh! she never thinks of depriving herself of anything, either for her breakfast or her dinner; but she says that a young girl ought to be economical and abstemious; she is quite right, too, and I assure you that with my ten sous I have all I need to eat. Indeed, there are some days when I don't spend it all; I keep a little for the next day, and then I have a feast. Mon Dieu! how I rattle on! My mistress will tell me I have been gone too long. It is a question of helping me to move, Monsieur Paul. As we are going to stay on the same floor, my aunt told me to get the concierge to help me, as he and I could move everything. But he is very old, and I'm afraid he isn't strong enough to move the things with me; so, if you can come----"

"Certainly, mademoiselle; I will move everything, never fear; there will be no need for you to tire yourself."

"Oh! I expect to help you. Well, then, Monsieur Paul, until to-morrow morning! come early, won't you?"

"Before daybreak, if you wish, mademoiselle."

"Oh, no! it is light before five o'clock now; if you can come at half-past five or quarter to six, that will be quite early enough."

"Very well, mademoiselle; I will be prompt."

"By the way, you must knock softly, so as not to wake my aunt; for she gets up very late. We can move everything except her bed."

"We won't make any noise, mademoiselle."

"Adieu, Monsieur Paul! Oh, dear! now I don't know what I was going to buy at the linen draper's; in talking with you, I have entirely forgotten."

"Thread, perhaps--or ribbon--or needles?"

"No, no. Oh! what a head I have! Never mind; I'll go back and say they hadn't any. Then madame will say that it's taken me a long time to find that out."

"Don't you want me to go up to Madame Dumanchon's, mademoiselle? I'll tell her that you have forgotten what color you were to buy, or how much."

"Oh, no! for then they would know that I have been talking to you; and the girls are always making fun of me now, because----"

"Because you are kind enough to employ me in preference to others?"

"Yes; and then, I--I said that you were above your calling. And I was right too, as you were in a merchant's employ for a long while; but still, they are so unkind! Well, it can't be helped; I must go back. I will admit that I have forgotten what I came out for, and I shall be scolded; but that's a small matter."

The girl turned and walked dolefully back toward the house opposite, and was just passing through the door, when she suddenly jumped for joy and ran back across the street, saying to Paul as she passed him:

"Whalebones, small, thin whalebones, to put in the back of a dress, I remember now. Adieu, until to-morrow!"

Paul looked after her until she turned into the boulevard; and even when he could no longer see her, he continued to gaze in that direction, as if it prolonged his happiness. But in a moment he exclaimed:

"Mon Dieu! I have forgotten that young gentleman's errands!"

He was about to start and make up for the time he had lost, when he felt a hand upon his arm. He turned and found that it was the flower girl who was detaining him.

"Let me go, Bastringuette, let me go!" he said; "I am in a great hurry; I have some errands to do."

"In a hurry, are you? I say! you didn't seem to be a minute ago, for you've been having a nice little chin with the little dressmaker. She plays a pretty game with her mouth, she does. You seem to have had lots of things to tell her, flatterer!"

"It's just because I have been talking so long that I am behindhand. By the way, Bastringuette, Sans-Cravate expects you to sup with him to-night at his wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare. He means to treat everybody."

"Shall you be in the crowd?"

"Why--perhaps so."

"I want you to be--if not, I won't go. Monster! who knows that I love him, that I am cracked over his shape, and still he won't honor me with a look, while he talks yards at a time with little hussies of dressmakers!"

"I am not in the habit of making eyes at my friends' mistresses, Bastringuette; and Sans-Cravate is my friend."

"I don't care a hang; I haven't sworn to love the same man and no one else all my life. That would be too monotonous; it's all right for the swells to take that kind of oaths and then break 'em. I prefer to act on the square, and I wouldn't hesitate to say before Sans-Cravate that I am stuck on you."

"You are mad. Let me go, I insist!"

Paul succeeded in releasing his jacket from the flower girl's grasp, and ran off at full speed; while Bastringuette crushed one of her bunches of violets, muttering:

"That's what comes of loving such beasts! Well, it don't make any difference; the more he resists me, the more I love him. That's my nature! we can't make ourselves over."

V

CLOSER ACQUAINTANCE

Before returning to the three young men who were about to enter the Passage des Panoramas, let us say a few words with regard to them: it is always well to know the people with whom one has to do.

Albert Vermoncey, whose external aspect was so captivating, had not reached his twenty-second birthday, and yet he was leading the most wildly dissipated life that a man can lead in Paris. Spoiled prematurely by his success with the fair sex, he deemed himself in duty bound to deceive all the women with whom he had dealings, to have several mistresses at the same time, to keep ballet dancers, to seduce simple bourgeoises, to make sport of grandes dames, and to amuse himself with grisettes.

To lead such an existence, one must have wealth, or high office, or unlimited credit. Albert had no office; he had completed the course of study for the bar, and called himself an advocate. There is nothing more advantageous to a man in Paris than to have studied for the bar; he may do nothing, and still he has a profession. That is why young men of good family, as a general rule, are very desirous to study law. But, in order to cut a brilliant figure in that position, it is necessary to have wealth in addition; for it is not the fashion to retain an advocate who tries no causes, unless he becomes a business agent, in which case he assumes the pompous title of _jurisconsult_, and has a _cabinet._ Knowledge of the law is a great advantage to a business agent, because he is then in a position to handle business of all sorts. When he knows the _Code_, the _Digest_, and the _Authentiques_, he can undertake proceedings for separation, look after inheritances, adoptions, and prosecutions; and those things do not interfere with his writing vaudevilles or melodramas in his leisure moments. I should be much embarrassed to mention anything that a man cannot do when he has studied law.

But Albert had no _cabinet_, nor did he try causes; he had never been to the Palais de Justice, and he thought of nothing but enjoying himself; it is plain, therefore, that he was wealthy, or that his parents were,--which is not altogether the same thing, although young men sometimes overlook the distinction.

Albert's father was a man somewhat over forty years of age, who had once been very handsome, and presumably had had his day of success with the ladies. However, before he reached the age at which men are accustomed to reform (when they reform at all), Monsieur Vermoncey had renounced all worldly pleasures, as the result of a succession of cruel disasters which robbed him of all that he held dearest.

Monsieur Vermoncey, whose only possession was his comely face, married early in life a young woman of large wealth, and from that time fortune smiled upon him. He plunged into speculation, was continuously lucky, and soon found himself in possession of an income of twenty thousand francs.

In his home, as in affairs, destiny seemed favorable to him. His wife was amiable and gentle; he had married her solely for her fortune, but he soon found that she deserved to be loved for herself, and, unlike those husbands who are all fire and flame at first and then turn to ice, he proceeded from indifference to love.

Four children were born of the marriage, at brief intervals. Albert was the oldest, and he had two brothers and a sister. Monsieur Vermoncey was happy, and proud of his numerous family; he was as good a father as husband.

But that state of affairs was too happy to last; perfect happiness seems to be contrary to the designs of Nature, for she speedily sends something to disturb it. Perhaps it is to afford some compensation to the unfortunate by showing them that suffering spares the greatest no more than the smallest, the wealthiest no more than the poorest; to prevent them from envying too keenly those in exalted station, and to impress it upon them that sometimes under the humblest roof are to be found those inestimable blessings, those joys of the heart, which all the gold of Peru cannot buy.

The oldest child was but ten years old when Monsieur Vermoncey lost his wife; this calamity was soon followed by the death of his youngest son; two years later, his daughter also was taken from him; finally, Albert's last brother followed his mother to the grave. So that, of his large family, only one son remained to fill the places of all whom he had lost.

These events had caused Monsieur Vermoncey the most profound grief, which was always reflected on his features. His wife's death caused him a very bitter pang, and the loss of each succeeding child intensified his sorrow beyond words. He would often sit for hours at a time, crushed to the earth by his thoughts; and when he raised his eyes, they bore an expression of melancholy resignation which could not fail to touch the hardest heart.

All his affection was concentrated on Albert, his only remaining child. It is not surprising, therefore, that the young man had found in his father a boundless store of indulgence, upon which he relied to obtain forgiveness for his excesses.

However, Monsieur Vermoncey did not carry his weakness so far that he did not see his son's failings; he had urged him to lead a more orderly life; sometimes, even, he had tried to impart a tinge of severity to his advice; but his intense affection for his son soon carried the day; moreover, Albert always promised to mend his ways, and his father was only too glad to believe him.

Unfortunately for Albert, he had become intimate with one of those men who trade on the weaknesses of others, and who, not having means enough to lead a life of dissipation, and lacking the talent to procure it, attach themselves to those who are possessed of wealth, find a way to make themselves necessary to them, to take part in all their follies, to be included in all their parties of pleasure; so that they are able to lead a most agreeable existence with a very modest income, or even if they have not a sou. Paris swarms with such men. They are not thieves, strictly speaking, for they do not rob you; they are not mere _intrigants_, for they have a name and some position in society; but they are shrewd fellows, who risk nothing and make the most of everything.

Monsieur Célestin Valnoir, who called himself _De_ Valnoir in order to obtain greater consideration, was an individual of this type. He had wormed himself into Albert's friendship, as men worm themselves into the friendship of those who own châteaux or large estates, or anything else that is worth preying upon. He had not a sou, and he was supposed to have at least fifteen thousand francs a year; he was the son of a butcher in the suburbs, and was believed to be of noble birth; he had no knowledge of music or of drawing, but posed as a master of all such subjects; in fact, he had received very little education, and he was looked upon as a profound scholar. But, on the other hand, he had certain qualities which, in society, often replace all others: an imperturbable self-assurance, and the art of turning the most trivial circumstances to his advantage.

Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier was one of a very poor and very large family, and had sworn to make his fortune. To that end, at the age of eight he walked about the streets picking up pins, which he sold when he had obtained a certain quantity. Impressed by his business instincts, one of his uncles had taken charge of him and made him his clerk, with no wages beyond his board and lodging; still the young man succeeded in saving money, which seems a difficult task, when he earned none; but he sold his uncle's old clothes, which were the only perquisites of his position. In order to make those perquisites more valuable, by advancing the time when his patron's garments should be turned over to him, he often passed a large part of the night rubbing them with pumice stone, so that the cloth soon became as thin as paper and began to give way on all sides. But one morning, when the uncle happened to rise earlier than usual, he found his nephew engaged in polishing the back of his coat, and instantly turned him out of doors.

Tobie thereupon risked his little hoard in a speculation. A friend of his had just opened a pastry-cook's shop. _Galette_ was just becoming fashionable in Paris; several large fortunes owed their origin to the fondness of the Parisians for that delicacy. Pigeonnier risked his funds, and at the end of a year he withdrew ten times as much. Thereupon, finding himself in a position to cut a figure in the world, Tobie became a dealer in chestnuts, on commission; but, despite his business ability, he made much less money than when he was the pastry-cook's partner; moreover, vanity had taken possession of him, and he had said to himself, like many another: "To become rich, it is necessary to appear rich; water flows to the river; consequently, in order to make money, I must act as if I already had a lot of it."--That is why young Tobie took so much pains with his dress, and affected the manners and habits of a wealthy dandy. To be sure, only the fronts of his shirts were of fine linen; the rest was of a very coarse, cheap quality; the head of his cane was hollow, his eyeglass German silver, his pin paste; but they all looked like the real thing. Furthermore, Pigeonnier never lost an opportunity to say:

"I dined at Véry's. I am going to breakfast at Véfour's. I sup to-night at the Maison-Dorée. I was at the Opéra last night. I am going to the Français to-night. I mean to go to the Bouffes to-morrow."

Whereas, in fact, Tobie Pigeonnier usually slipped into the most modest restaurants, except when he dined at home on a loaf of bread and a piece of Italian cheese; which did not prevent him from going to walk afterward in the garden of the Palais-Royal, with a toothpick in his mouth, and saying to all his acquaintances, as he unbuttoned two or three buttons of his waistcoat:

"On my word, I believe I ate too much dinner; I am suffocating. They treat you very well at Douix's. But it's foolish to eat so much. I am a shameful glutton!"

And if he went to the theatre, it was only to take his stand under the peristyle just as the curtain fell, in order to hear what was said of the play; and when he did venture to buy a ticket, it was only because he could get it extremely cheap, there being only a scene or two to be played.

We have said enough to make it clear that he was very far from having as many mistresses as he claimed to have. Although he was rather a good-looking youth, especially in the eyes of those persons who like noses shaped like a parrot's beak, he rarely ventured to embark upon a love affair; because, as a general rule, such affairs require, first of all, that one should have money in one's pocket. A young man without a sou may inspire a passion, form a liaison, have a mistress who really loves him; and under such circumstances he is entitled to flatter himself that he is loved on his own account; but he cannot change mistresses very often--in short, he can hardly be what we call a man _à bonnes fortunes_. That is a calling which requires a constant expenditure of money and of health. Tobie asked nothing better than to spend the latter, but preferred to hoard his money.

When his fashionable friends proposed to him to join a party of pleasure, or to dine with them, he always found some pretext for refusing; but this time, the hope of making a conquest of Madame Plays overcame his usual reserve; for in that lady's acquaintance he foresaw many opportunities to advance his fortunes. Monsieur Plays was a commission merchant, and might offer him frequent opportunities to make profitable investments. All these considerations combined had induced Tobie to accept Albert's proposition; and although he was very short of money, he had decided also to be one of the dinner party at the Maison-Dorée.

Now, let us join the three young men in the Passage des Panoramas, where they were waiting for the two others whom Célestin had arranged to meet there.

"There's always a crowd in this passage," said Albert. "In summer, people walk through; in winter, they come here to walk, because the boulevards are muddy. If it rains, they come here for shelter; if the sun is very hot, they come here for shade; so that there's always a crowd here."

"Let's look at the statuettes. You told us, Tobie, didn't you, that somebody was making a caricature of you?"

"Not a caricature, but a bust, life size."

"That won't be so amusing."

"Have we got to wait for Mouillot and Balivan, I wonder! Mouillot is never on time."

"Oh! it isn't half-past five yet."

"Let's look at the new songs."

"That is to say, the new lithographs; for a song doesn't sell nowadays, you know, unless it has some pretty picture on the cover."

"That's not very flattering for the music."

"But it's a good thing for the artists. Brûlé's shop, Frère's successor, is always full of fascinating things of that sort. Look! there are some beautiful _albums._ I refer to the binding."

Tobie was standing in an ecstasy of admiration before a manikin in front of a draper's shop.

"Is that your bust you are gazing at?" asked Célestin, laughingly.

"You seem inclined to jest, messieurs; but I would like to resemble this manikin. I mean, in the way he's dressed. Just see how beautifully that frock-coat fits his back! It must be delightful to be dressed like that! I would gladly pay sixty francs for a coat that squeezed my waist that way."

"You can be squeezed for less than that. But you may set your mind at rest, young Pigeonnier; I assure you that you look a good deal like a manikin."

Tobie glanced at Célestin with an expression that said:

"You would be very glad to look like me!"

At that moment, Albert halted in front of a cap and ribbon shop, in which he spied two rather attractive young women behind the counter. He exchanged meaning glances with one of them, while the mistress of the shop was trying caps on a decidedly plain person who had just come in, and who found none of them to her taste, because she could not make up her mind that any one of them made her pretty.

As the throng about them became more dense, Tobie took his companions by the arm, saying:

"If you stand still like this, messieurs, look out for your pockets. The Passage des Panoramas is very pretty, very brilliant, and much frequented; but I must warn you that it is one of the places where the greatest number of thefts is committed every day. When an honest bourgeois stops in front of Susse's shop, or in front of Marquis's wonderful _postiches_, if he doesn't keep his hands on his fob and his pockets all the time, he is sure to find himself minus watch, purse, handkerchief, and snuffbox. Between six and nine at night, when the promenaders are most numerous, the thefts are most frequent; at that time, you see in these galleries numbers of men in blouses and caps, who certainly have no business in this quarter, and who wouldn't walk in this passage unless they carried on a criminal industry here."

"You are right, Tobie; and I can see at this moment some gentlemen with faces in which I should have very little confidence. Come, Albert, come--are you still in love with that shopgirl? Ah! I see our friends--and Dupétrain is with them! Good! we shall have some sport. He always has some extraordinary story to tell."

"Who is Monsieur Dupétrain?" inquired Tobie.

"Don't you know Dupétrain? Well, upon my word! All Paris knows him. He's a very good fellow--who is constantly having wonderful adventures. He's a frantic adept of magnetism. He'll put you to sleep, and make you walk in your sleep, if you like. Come, messieurs; come, I say!"

Three young men, walking arm in arm, halted in front of Albert and his companions. They greeted one another with smiles, exchanging handshakes and puffs of tobacco smoke.

The new-comers were: first, Mouillot, head clerk in a business house; a tall, fair-haired, red-cheeked youth, with an amiable, jovial face, whose appearance pointed him out at once as a bon vivant.

Next, Balivan, portrait painter; a typical artist's face, with unusual features, which could in all sincerity be called ugly, and a bearing in harmony with his features. He held himself sidewise, with his head sunk on one shoulder; he had a jerky walk, one leg always lagging behind; and he waved his arms about in space, so that at a distance they resembled the wings of a windmill. But, with all that, his face had much character and expression; his forehead was that of a man who thinks, and in his eyes there shone the fire of intelligence, which, in a man, excuses ugliness and often triumphs over beauty.

Balivan had genuine artistic talent, which is never a disadvantage; but he was extremely lazy, a not infrequent trait among artists; in addition, he was very heedless, always making blunders, and extraordinarily absent-minded.

The third of the party was he whom Célestin called Dupétrain. He was a man between thirty and forty, with a square, bony face, and yellow skin, extremely ugly at first sight, and even more so when examined closely. His broad nose lay flat on his cheeks, like a negro's; his enormous mouth became a veritable cavern when he spoke, because, in order to give greater weight to his words, he articulated every syllable with a painstaking care that was very disagreeable to his hearers. His head was adorned with a forest of hair, which he always wore very long, and which gave him some resemblance to a lion; his small, sunken, glassy eyes seemed to be engaged in a constant effort to fascinate or at least to magnetize you. Such was the individual who answered to the name of Dupétrain.

"Ah! here's Pigeonnier!" exclaimed Mouillot, bringing his hand down on the corpulent youth's shoulder. "Does he dine with us?"

"Yes, messieurs; I am to have that pleasure."

"Famous! the man we can never get--who's always engaged."

"I have given up everything to-day to join you."

"But he doesn't tell you all. There's another affair--but, no! we will speak of that at dinner--without mentioning the lady's name, of course; for we must be discreet--eh, Tobie?"

"Where do we dine?"

"At the Maison-Dorée."

VI

A STAG DINNER PARTY

The young men established themselves in one of the pleasant salons of the restaurant. Mouillot called for pen and ink to prepare the menu, and Tobie whispered to Albert:

"We mustn't forget my letter for Madame Plays."

"True," replied Albert.--"Waiter, some note paper."

"Do you propose to order the dinner, too?" said Mouillot. "Can't you trust me to do it in style?"

"To be sure; I am going to write something else."

"A billet-doux, eh? Oh! for heaven's sake, let the women alone! We are here to eat and laugh."

"This is how it is, messieurs. There's----"

"Oh! my dear fellow," cried Tobie, hurrying to Albert's side, "let's not compromise anybody! we agreed to be close-mouthed!"

"So long as he doesn't mention the lady's name," said Célestin, "I don't see why he can't tell the story."

"Surely I can. I am turning over one of my mistresses to Tobie, messieurs,--assuming, of course, that she is willing to accept him as a substitute."

"You can't be certain of that," laughed Mouillot; "for he hasn't the figure."

"Do you say you've been drawn in the conscription?" inquired Balivan, who had not heard the beginning of the conversation.

"No, no; I have bought a substitute.--Come, Albert, write my letter; for I am afraid we shall hardly be in the mood for writing after dinner."

"I am sending Tobie to an assignation in my place," said Albert, "and I am going to give him a letter of introduction."

"Well, you can write your letter while I am writing the order for dinner. It will give you inspiration. Here come the writing materials."

Albert sat down opposite Mouillot, each of them took a pen; and while one sought words to write to his mistress, the other looked over the bill of fare.

Albert began, reading aloud as he wrote:

"Charming creature!"

Mouillot in like manner announced each dish that he selected.

"_Potage aux bistres._"

"You know how dearly I love you."

"For three--that will be enough."

"Your image is always before me."

"Calf's head _en tortue_."

"When I see you, I instantly become----"

"_Andouillette de Troyes._"

"Drunk with joy."

"With salmon."

"But I am detained at this moment by urgent business, dear heart."

"Truffled turkey."

"To save you the annoyance of waiting for me at our rendezvous----"

"Lobster----"

"I send one of my intimate friends."

"As fresh as possible."

"You can trust him absolutely."

"If it smells, we shall send it back."

"He will escort you to a place we have agreed on----"

"Asparagus----"

"And will stay with you till I come."

"With white sauce."

"I will join you as soon as I possibly can."

"Sweets, dessert, champagne."

"I send you by him a thousand assurances of my love."

"Serve everything hot."

"With such a letter of recommendation, it seems to me that you ought to receive a warm welcome," said Albert, as he signed his name.

"I call that a well-diversified little dinner, messieurs," said Mouillot, handing the order to the waiter.

As for Tobie, he thanked Albert and carefully pocketed the missive that was to open the way for him to a piquant intrigue.

"Above all things, serve the dinner promptly, and without interruption," he called to the waiter.

"Mon Dieu! why are we in such a hurry?" said the artist, who had already seated himself at the table and was blowing his nose in his napkin, which he mistook for his handkerchief. "For my part, I like to sit a long while at dinner."

"So do I; but I have an assignation for this evening."

"Well, upon my word! there's Balivan using his napkin for a handkerchief! That's the beginning of his freaks. We shall see some amusing sights, if he goes on."

"My napkin! Faith, that's true! I am always doing that; and the worst of it is that I did it not long ago at a grand dinner, at a banker's house, where there were marquises and deputies. Suddenly I saw that everybody was looking at me with a curious expression. Imagine my confusion, when a very pretty woman, who was sitting beside me, said in a most amiable tone: 'Of course, you are doing that for a wager, monsieur?'--'What, madame?'--'Using your napkin as a handkerchief.'--Then, of course, I realized my blunder; and what do you suppose I did, in my embarrassment? I put the napkin in my pocket! Luckily, everybody began to laugh, for they saw how absent-minded I was."

"Meanwhile," said Mouillot, "I request as a favor that I may not be seated next to Balivan, because absent-minded people are very unpleasant neighbors at table.--You ask him to pass the olives, and he'll pour water in your wine. If you want bread, he'll pass you the pepper. It's a constant succession of disappointments."

"Have you ever been magnetized?" inquired Monsieur Dupétrain, fixing his glassy stare on the painter.

"Oh! go to the devil with your magnetism! As if I took any stock in it!"

"Take any stock in it! Why, my dear fellow, don't you know that the power of magnetism is absolutely proved? that the most distinguished people are the most fervent adepts of Mesmer? that ladies of the highest social position go to the magnetizers now to be put to sleep, as they used to go to be mesmerized?"

"Parbleu! that's a convincing authority to appeal to! Women--who adore anything that promises a novel kind of sensation, and who seek pleasure instead of truth."

"But I'll wager, Balivan, that I can put you to sleep, incredulous as you are!"

"Put me to sleep! That is very possible; but it would be much harder to wake me."

"I say, messieurs, aren't you ready to stop talking magnetism?" cried Mouillot; "I supposed that we dined together to enjoy ourselves. For heaven's sake, Dupétrain, don't put us to sleep yet! Later, if you choose.--To the table, my friends!"

They took their seats, Tobie among the first. He examined the tableware, the hors-d'oeuvre, the glasses of different sizes placed in front of each guest, and an ecstatic expression lighted up his face. From the way that he ate and drank, and lingered lovingly over every mouthful, one could divine that he was perfectly content, and that his thoughts took this turn:

"As I am here, I must make the most of it. If I spend money, at all events it will be of some benefit to me."

"Aren't we going to have any madeira?" said Célestin, after finishing his soup.

"I should say so! What do you take us for?" replied Mouillot.

"Yes, yes! madeira!" cried Pigeonnier. "When I am in the vein, I don't deny myself anything."

"Waiter! some madeira!"

"It is here, messieurs; what wine will you have next?"

"Beaune première, to begin with. After that, we will see."

"That's right!" said Tobie, gulping down the madeira. "Beaune première, the best there is! Is anything too good for us? Pass me the olives. Pass me the anchovies. Pass me the tunny."

"The devil! you might as well say pass me everything! How little Tobie pitches in! Be careful, my dear fellow; it isn't prudent to have your stomach too full when you are going straight away to an assignation."

"Oh! I have room enough. I'd like some madeira."

"Monsieur has a full, round face, which doesn't indicate a very nervous man," said Dupétrain, looking at Tobie; "but I'll bet that I can put him to sleep."

"Dupétrain," cried Mouillot, "you will be fined five francs every time that you mention magnetism during dinner."

"Oho! we're forbidden to speak now, are we?"

"Tell us something amusing--we would like that.--But you don't say anything, Albert! Have you an unrequited passion in your heart?"

"I, a passion! _Fichtre!_ no--but I---- By the way, waiter, I expect a messenger. Let me know when anyone asks for me."

"The same with me," said Célestin.

"And me," cried Tobie, stuffing a handful of olives into his pocket; "let me know, waiter--for it's very important. I am Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier. A messenger will ask for me."

"Do you propose to put all the olives in your pocket, Tobie?"

"I like them pocketed,[B] messieurs; they're much better."

"Yes," laughed Célestin, "and then, you have some the next day."

"Ah! they are better pocketed, are they?" said the artist. "Then I must try some."

And as the radishes were passed to Balivan a moment later, he seized a handful and put them in his pocket.

The first courses were discussed with great zest by the young men; but when the truffled turkey arrived, their enthusiasm had abated in some degree; Tobie alone seemed as hungry as ever, and filled his plate with truffles, crying:

"On my word, one can dine mighty well here!"

"You don't seem to be sure of yourself, Pigeonnier," said Albert, with a smile.

"Peste!" said Mouillot; "how you do work your oven!"

"Well, for all that," interposed Dupétrain, "I'll bet that I can put monsieur to sleep."

"Five francs, Dupétrain!"

"Give me some beaune, Balivan. Damnation! I knew it; he's mixed it with madeira! Would you like me to give you an idea of that fellow's absent-mindedness, messieurs? Not long ago, I went to see him during the day; his servant said: 'Monsieur is taking a bath; he sent out for one, and he's in it now.'--'Well,' I said, 'that needn't prevent my speaking to him. Men aren't afraid to look at one another in the water.'--So I went into the room where my gentleman was bathing. What did I see? Balivan, fully dressed, and with his boots on, seated in his bath and quietly reading a newspaper, absolutely unconscious that there was anything peculiar in his method of bathing."

"Ha! ha! ha! that is too much; we might say, like your fair neighbor at dinner: it was a bet, wasn't it, Balivan?"

"No, messieurs," the artist calmly replied; "I give you my word that I hadn't noticed what I was doing. If they had brought me my bath in decent season, it wouldn't have happened. But when I found that it didn't come, I went out; when I came back, it was all ready; I was in a hurry, so I just glanced at the clock, took the _Gazette des Tribunaux_, and jumped in. That infernal newspaper was at the bottom of it; for I was reading a very interesting case, and all I remember now is that the water seemed very heavy."

"You may be a somnambulist," said Dupétrain; "very likely you were asleep when you got into the bath."

"Asleep! damnation! I tell you, I had just been out to do an errand; I was in a great hurry, for I hadn't had my breakfast, and I got into the bath without thinking of undressing."

During this conversation, young Tobie, determined to waste no time, had slipped into his napkin a large part of the truffles that were on his plate, and, having wiped them carefully, stuffed them into his pocket. Then he said:

"Just pass me the turkey again, messieurs; I would like a few of the truffles with this chicken."

"I say, Pigeonnier, this is too much; you mean to outdo yourself, my dear fellow, to leave Albert in the shade!"

"Tudieu! what an appetite!" cried Mouillot. "That blade ought to pay for two; he beats us all."

"You see, messieurs, I am very fond of truffles."

"So we perceive."

Albert consulted his watch, and said, with an impatient gesture:

"Why doesn't that messenger come?"

"Neither of them has come yet."

"Have you been sending bouquets to your fair ones, messieurs?" queried Mouillot; "that reminds me of an experience I had with a blockhead of a messenger. My mistress at that time was a very attractive woman, an amiable little creature of about twenty-two, who seemed barely eighteen. She was married, and an old aunt of her husband lived with her and was supposed to keep an eye on her, because they knew she was a little giddy. So that we had to act cautiously. My charmer had asked me to send her a bouquet, because she was going to a ball, to which I also was going. During the day, I bought a lovely bouquet at Mademoiselle Prévot's, then took a cab, and told the driver to take me to the faubourg where my mistress lived. I got out at the corner of a street, two or three hundred yards from her house, and looked about for a messenger. At last I spied one; he was a man fifty years old or more, very dirty, and with the general aspect of a drunkard, but still the probabilities were that he knew his business. I beckoned to him and led him into a doorway. He tried to look cunning when he saw that he was to carry a bouquet. I pointed out the house, and told him the number, then said: 'There's no concierge; you must go to the rear of the courtyard, where there is only one little door, at which you will ring. If the door is opened by a man, or by an old woman, you will say simply: "Here's the bouquet madame ordered of a flower girl, to be sent to her," and then come away without another word; but if it's a young woman, then you will say to her: "Here is the bouquet, madame; the gentleman who sent it is at the corner of the street yonder," and listen carefully to what she tells you to say to me. I will wait here for you. You understand! no blundering!'--My messenger assumed his sly expression once more, and replied: 'Never fear, monsieur; this isn't the first time I've carried a bouquet.'--And off he went with mine. I followed him with my eyes. I wasn't very easy in my mind, for the fellow looked so stupid that I was afraid of some blunder. To begin with, I saw that he passed the house, although I had pointed it out to him plainly enough; however, after going beyond it, he turned back and found it; he went in, and I waited. After several minutes, which seemed painfully long to me, my man came back with a self-satisfied air.--'Well,' I said, 'to whom did you give it?'--'Two children, nine or ten years old, opened the door, monsieur; one was a little girl, and the other a boy. "My little friends," I says to them; "here's a bouquet somebody gave me for your mother; will you go and tell her?"'--'Great God!' I cried; 'did I tell you that the lady had children? Well?'--'Then, monsieur, a lady came.'--'Young and pretty?'--'Not bad-looking, monsieur, according to my ideas.'--'It must have been the old woman, then; what did you say to her?'--'I says: "Madame, here's a bouquet that the flower girl hopes you'll accept; it will give her great pleasure."--"What flower girl?" says the lady. "I haven't ordered any bouquet. Where is the flower girl's stand?"--"Faith! madame, the young man didn't tell me; but it's paid for; my orders are not to take any money."'--'The devil take you!' cried I, as I dismissed him; 'I shall know you again, and I'll never send you to carry another bouquet.'--And, as it turned out, that brute was the cause of a terrible scene between my little lady and her husband, which led to a rupture between us. Moral: good messengers are rare in Paris. They try to show so much intelligence that, if you hand them an unaddressed letter, and say: 'You are to take this letter,'--they begin by grabbing it and running off; and you have to call them back to tell them where to carry it."

"I have another charge to make, messieurs," said Célestin. "Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier is stuffing truffles into his pocket. I'm not surprised that they disappear from his plate so fast."

"Mon Dieu! just because I've taken two or three.--Come, waiter! The lobster--and the asparagus. Hot! hot!"

"At what time do you go to your rendezvous?" asked Balivan.

"Half-past eight."

"You have time enough."

"None too much; you see, I should like some dessert too."

"Oh! I see that you don't propose to abandon your share of anything."

"When a man has a good stomach, he ought to make use of it. If you play bouillotte this evening, I'll come back and join you."

"If we play!" cried Mouillot; "I rather think so--eh, Albert?"

"Oh, yes! I want my revenge."

"Bouillotte to the death!" said Balivan, absent-mindedly eating asparagus at the wrong end.

"And afterward, messieurs," said Dupétrain, "I will magnetize you all."

"Oh! he'll drive us mad with his nonsense! I say, Dupétrain, do you magnetize your mistresses, when you have any?"

"Certainly; I put myself in communication with them at once."

"He communicates his magnetic fluid to them."

"And as they confess, in the somnambulistic state, that they deceive him, that vexes him, and he goes off and puts others to sleep."

"Laugh as much as you please, messieurs!" rejoined Dupétrain, assuming a solemn expression and resting his elbows on the table; "but if I should tell you all the extraordinary things that have been disclosed to me by the power of magnetism, you would shudder from head to foot."

"_Fichtre!_" exclaimed Tobie, returning to the lobster. "Faith! they give you a good dinner here.--Is this story of yours very interesting?"

"Well, well!" said Albert; "here's Tobie burning with the desire to shudder from head to foot!"

"I'll tell you a single incident," replied Dupétrain, delighted to find that Tobie paid some attention to what he said.--"A young woman, whose husband was travelling----"

At that moment, the waiter opened the door of the salon and said:

"A messenger is here, asking for Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir."

"Very well," said Célestin, rising; "I'll go and speak to him."

He left the room and found Jean Ficelle waiting on the landing; he beckoned to the messenger, who said in an undertone:

"First of all, my comrade Sans-Cravate went to the same house that I