San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 110

"Luckily, we know that it isn't injurious," said Dodichet. "Come on!

let's open the champagne; that will help us to forget the camphor."

One and all eagerly held out their gla.s.ses; the champagne foamed--but only for a moment; and when everybody had tasted it, there was a profound silence; a silence that was most unpleasant, under such circ.u.mstances, and was equivalent to a general "Sh!" as on the stage.

At last, Dodichet, who was always outspoken, exclaimed:

"Sapristi! this champagne isn't as good as your claret! The man who sold this to you, Monsieur Mirotaine, sold you too."

"What do you say? Sold me! Why, it's Cliquot, Cliquot _cremant_."

"That stuff, _cremant!_ as much as I'm a bishop! I'll get you to give me your dealer's address, so that I may avoid him."

The champagne having proved a flat failure, and Aldegonde having no other wine to offer, the dessert came to grief; and they soon left the table, to take their coffee in the salon.

VIII

DRAMATIC SCENES

The guests were not in that vivacious frame of mind which generally signalizes the end of a dinner. To be sure, they had not had much to warm them up; the vin ordinaire was watered, the champagne resembled vinegar; the claret alone had made a success, but two bottles were a very small allowance for eleven people, especially when one of them appropriated half of it.

Madame Trichon was still brooding over the blow from a fork on her chin, and from a chair on her head. Monsieur Brid'oison was sulking because his son had been called a blackguard; his wife continued to swallow her hair; Madame Putiphar and Aldegonde were disturbed by the Italian count's silence with Juliette; the last-named alone was in a charming mood, and was ably seconded by Dodichet, who, from time to time, hid his face in order to laugh at Miflores.

The coffee had just been brought, and Aldegonde was filling the cups, when Monsieur Brid'oison offered Monsieur Mirotaine his snuffbox, saying:

"Try this, and tell me what you think of it."

"Why, you know perfectly well that I don't take snuff."

"This brand is well worth departing from your habit."

Monsieur Mirotaine took a pinch and stuffed it into his nose, with a sign of approbation. But the pungent powder soon produced its inevitable effect upon one who was unaccustomed to its use: Monsieur Mirotaine sneezed twice in rapid succession, and the second time the effect was of such a nature that he was obliged to resort to his handkerchief in hot haste, in order to wipe his nose. So he thrust his hand hurriedly into his pocket, and pulled out his handkerchief so quickly that with it he sent pickles, radishes, and onions flying about the room.

Everybody was dumfounded; they gazed in amazement at the hors-d'uvre strewn about the floor and on the furniture. Madame Trichon alone uttered a cry of pain; the poor woman had no luck; she had received an onion in the eye, and, as it was pickled, it caused the delicate spot it had struck to smart vigorously.

"How is this, monsieur? is it possible that you put some of the hors-d'uvre in your pocket?" said Aldegonde. "And to think that I suspected poor Goth! Fie, monsieur, for shame! that is unpardonable!"

Instead of asking his wife's forgiveness, Monsieur Mirotaine was on his hands and knees, picking up the delicacies he had unwittingly taken from his pocket. As for Madame Trichon, she went off to weep by herself in a corner, declaring that there was a conspiracy to disfigure her.

While they were taking their coffee, Dodichet said to his friend:

"Come, Miflores, for heaven's sake talk a little! try to make yourself agreeable to the ladies. You act like an oyster, my dear fellow."

"I didn't ask you to bring me here; it was you who insisted on my coming, saying that it would inspire confidence in the master of the house, with whom you hoped to do a big business."

"That is true, perfectly true; that is why I pa.s.sed you off for an Italian count."

"Oh! I don't care about that."

"Lying a little more or less doesn't matter; and you are lying by calling yourself Miflores, when your real name is Seringat; a pretty name, by the way, which reminds one of a canary [_serin_], a flower [_syringa_], and a syringe [_seringue_]. Miflores isn't your name."

"It was my mother's, so I have a right to take it."

"At all events, you don't want these people to know your real name, and what happened to you, do you?"

"No, no! never! I would rather--I--don't know what."

"Well, I know the whole story."

"But you promised to keep it secret, my good, kind friend."

"Yes; but on condition that you'll be obliging, that you'll do everything for me that I ask you to do."

"That's agreed. Do you want more money? Tell me."

"Not now; but try to be amiable, amusing, polite, while you are here; that's all I ask of you at present."

"I will try right away."

Whereupon my gentleman went to the hostess, took her hand, and kissed it several times.

"What does that mean; does he expect to marry my wife?" thought Monsieur Mirotaine.

But Aldegonde did not find that pantomime unpleasant; she smiled at Miflores, thinking that he was about to ask for her stepdaughter's hand; but he simply bowed and said:

"There's another pickle under that chair."

Monsieur Calle hastened to pick it up and carry it to Mirotaine, who put it in his pocket, saying to Monsieur Calle:

"You don't let things lie round; you'll make your way."

Dodichet tried hard to enliven the company, and to that end resorted frequently to the decanter containing brandy, the only liqueur that was offered the guests; he helped himself to several gla.s.ses, and even went so far as to offer some to the others. Monsieur Mirotaine witnessed this procedure with impatience.

"That fellow makes too free with my brandy," he muttered; "that's the third time he's gone back to it; he pours it out as if he were in his own house! Very bad manners, I call it! I must try to take the decanter away without my wife's seeing me."

The arrival of several of the guests invited for the evening enabled Monsieur Mirotaine to carry out his plan.

Goth announced "Mesdames Boulard," and three middle-aged women appeared, dressed with much coquetry, with little caps that hardly covered the tops of their heads, from beneath which escaped _chignons_ resembling m.u.f.fs. Their hoopskirts were so vast that the upper part of their bodies seemed to be poised on balloons; the door of the salon was scarcely wide enough to allow them to pa.s.s through.

At sight of this trio, who promised to occupy so much s.p.a.ce in the salon, Dodichet said to Brid'oison:

"Your young Artaban ought to perform some of his gymnastics on those balloons, to flatten them out a little."

"You are right. The fact is that women are getting to be ridiculous!

before long, one woman alone will fill a whole room! Just look at my wife--what a difference! I have forbidden her to wear hoops; so that she can go anywhere; she's a regular knitting needle."