San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 72

"The matter is that you're a coward, a sneak!"

"Sans-Cravate!"

"Who was that with you a minute ago?"

"Bastringuette."

"And she ran off when she saw me, because she was afraid I'd give her a beating; but I don't beat women, I don't; I take my revenge on men--and you've got to fight with me!"

"Sans-Cravate, you are entirely mistaken--I give you my word of honor. I am not Bastringuette's lover; I have never mentioned the word _love_ to her; besides, you know perfectly well that I am in love with another woman."

"That proves that you love two at once, that's all! Oh! you can't fool me any more with your wheedling ways. You're a blackguard, a traitor--I know you now. Come, coats off!"

"Sans-Cravate, you are not in your right mind at this moment. When you are not so excited, you will listen to me."

"No, no, not a word! I've swallowed your insults and been called a coward long enough. It's time to put an end to it."

"But you are mistaken; listen to me."

"I tell you, I won't; we must fight."

"I have told you before that I will not fight with you."

"Then I'll find a way to force you to."

"Yes, yes," said Jean Ficelle, from behind Sans-Cravate; "when a man entices a friend's mistress away from him, he can't refuse to give him satisfaction."

Paul cast a contemptuous glance at Jean Ficelle, and was about to answer him, when Sans-Cravate rushed at him like a madman and shook his fist in his face, crying:

"Will you fight?"

"No, for you are drunk! I am bound to overlook your foolish behavior."

"Oh! that's it, is it?"

And Sans-Cravate, utterly beside himself with jealousy, jumped at Paul, and, seizing him around the waist, threw him against the wall of the ca.n.a.l. The young man tried to save himself; but he stumbled and staggered, and, as he fell, his head struck a large paving stone which, unluckily, had been left lying there; its sharp edge made a deep wound, and the blood soon formed a pool about the wounded man.

Paul did not utter a sound; but Sans-Cravate, when he saw the blood flowing from the wound, stood as if turned to stone, horror-stricken, and his face became ghastly pale. Jean-Ficelle seized his arm.

"Let's be off!" he said; "let's be off! you've given him his dose, and that's all that was needed; now let's cut sticks."

"But he is wounded, he's bleeding," muttered Sans-Cravate.

"Bah! just a scratch--a trifle; that's none of our business."

"No, I won't leave him so; the least I can do is to carry him to that shop yonder, to have his wound dressed."

Sans-Cravate stooped over Paul, who, in addition to the wound on his head, had a badly bruised arm. To take off his jacket and turn back his shirt sleeve, to see whether the arm was seriously injured, was the work of an instant; as he bared Paul's forearm, he saw a small, perfectly distinct, blue cross. He was about to carry the wounded man to a shop near by, when Bastringuette came running up; seeing Paul wounded and bathed in blood, she cried:

"What an outrage! they have murdered him! poor boy! poor Paul!"

And the tall girl, kneeling on the ground, raised the messenger's head and examined it. At that moment, several persons, attracted by her outcry, drew near the wounded man. Once more Jean Ficelle pulled Sans-Cravate by the arm, saying:

"Well! they don't need you here, you see; he'll be well taken care of."

"That's true; you are right--as she is with him, there's nothing for me to do here. Let's go!"

As he spoke, Sans-Cravate hurried away with his comrade, not once turning his head to look back, as if he were afraid to meet Bastringuette's eye.

XXV

AN EVENING PARTY.--A SOUVENIR

There was a brilliant reception at the house of a wealthy foreigner, who had taken up his abode in Paris because he had concluded that the people of that city have learned most thoroughly the secret of enjoying themselves, of varying their amus.e.m.e.nts, and of doing themselves credit with their wealth. He was absolutely right; and as the Parisians are very fond of people who give them dinners, concerts, b.a.l.l.s, routs--in a word, festivities of every sort, the residence of the wealthy foreigner became the usual rendezvous of a large number of people, and his receptions were always crowded.

It may be that those persons who insist upon knowing in whose company they are, who are afraid to sit at a card table with a gentleman or lady whose social position is not definitely fixed, might have found much to criticise in the society which was wont to a.s.semble in the salons of Monsieur Grazcernitz (such was the wealthy foreigner's name); but as the number of those who like to be entertained is very considerable, he was always certain of having an abundance of guests.

To obtain an invitation from Monsieur Grazcernitz, it was sufficient to have cut a figure in society, to have made a name for one's self in letters, art, or commerce, to be able to sing an aria or a ballad with taste and expression, to tell an anecdote interestingly, or even to make a pun. To the ladies, the wealthy foreigner was even more indulgent; a pretty woman, a woman of fashion, a blue-stocking, an unknown or unappreciated artist, were always welcome in his salon. One often met there people whom one never met on the fashionable promenades or at the theatre; just as we may meet at a railroad station a friend whom we have not seen for several years, a mistress who, we supposed, had gone to Russia, an old artist whom we believed to be dead--in a word, someone whom we should vainly seek in the streets of Paris.

Now, Monsieur Grazcernitz's salons were frequently honored by the presence of Monsieur and Madame Plays. Monsieur went thither as his wife's escort, and madame to display her charms and her dresses, and to make conquests. It was at that house that she had made Albert Vermoncey's acquaintance.

Madame Baldimer also was an habitue of the wealthy foreigner's salons.

It was at his receptions that she had been named the fair American.

Balivan, the absent-minded painter, was also to be met with there, and the jovial Mouillot, Dupetrain the magnetizer, the young man with the white eyebrows, and Monsieur Celestin de Valnoir, who possessed the art of insinuating himself everywhere.

Tobie Pigeonnier had obtained an introduction to Monsieur Grazcernitz a short time before the loss of his olive; he had been overjoyed to find himself at a function where punch, ices, cake, and delicacies of all sorts, were served in great profusion to the guests. Since the adventure of the fetich, he had not dared to show his face in Monsieur Grazcernitz's salon, and that was not one of the least of his annoyances.

Madame Baldimer had just been announced. She entered the salon under the escort of Monsieur Dupetrain, who, by dint of telling her that he possessed the power of magnetizing and putting to sleep anybody that she chose, had succeeded in inducing her to receive him.

The fair American was magnificently dressed, and resplendent with diamonds and jewelry; the beauty of her face and the splendor of her costume attracted every eye, and a circle soon formed about her.

"That Dupetrain's a lucky dog!" said a very ugly little man; "he is Madame Baldimer's escort, she accepts his arm. How can anyone understand such a whim? to select for her cavalier an ugly creature--with nothing to recommend him--while so many good-looking young men, men of real merit, are paying court to her!"

"What does that prove?" rejoined a gentleman, laughing in the last speaker's face. "You don't suppose Dupetrain is that woman's lover, do you? on the contrary, she accepts his arm because he's of no consequence at all. Besides, she has been courted by many other men, who have been no more fortunate for having acted as her cavalier. That lovely creature impresses me as being inclined to amuse herself at the expense of every man who is attentive to her."

"Do you think so? Haven't some of them fought duels for her?"

"Yes; I believe there has been a duel; but I don't know who the parties were."

The arrival of two new guests changed the subject of conversation.

Monsieur and Madame Plays entered the salon. The host went forward to meet the superb and ma.s.sive Herminie, saying:

"Mon Dieu! madame, what a pleasure it is to see you! we have been deprived of that pleasure so long! What has become of you? For more than two months you haven't been seen in society! I have asked about you several times, and been told: 'Madame Plays has gone into retirement in one of her country houses; she receives no one and sees no one; in fact, she has turned hermit.'"