San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 93

"It's a mistake of the gendarmes; they take us for somebody else! That trick's been played on me seven or eight times before!"

"That's how I should have ended, perhaps," thought Sans-Cravate, as he looked after them, "if I'd listened to that ne'er-do-well's advice! for there's no mistake about it, when a man keeps going on sprees, and never works, he seldom comes to a good end."

LITTLE STREAMS

I

FOUR AT THE RENDEZVOUS

It was just five o'clock in the afternoon, when a fashionably dressed young man, of comely aspect, and possessed of an attractive countenance, although his large blue eyes sometimes expressed a decided penchant for raillery, entered the cafe which stands, or stood, at the corner of Faubourg Poissonniere and the boulevard, on the right as you turn into the latter.

The young man looked into the first room, then into the others in succession, and at last said to himself:

"No one! not a single one of them has come! Probably not a single one of them will come! Five years is quite long enough to forget an appointment. However, I remembered it. I am sure that they are not all dead, for I met Dodichet within two months, and I saw Dubotte at the theatre less than a week ago. Lucien is the only one I haven't heard of for some time. Well, I'll wait a while. Everyone is ent.i.tled to the fifteen minutes' grace."

And the young man, whose name was Adhemar Monbrun, seated himself at a table, took up a newspaper, ordered a _pet.i.t verre_ of chartreuse, and read a review of the play which had had a successful first performance the night before, but which the newspaper critic abused because the author was not a friend of his. Which fact, luckily, was not likely to prevent the play from making its way and achieving a long run, because the public was beginning to take at their true value the articles of those aristarchs of the press, who took for their motto, generally speaking: "No one shall be allowed to have any cleverness except ourselves and our friends."

Adhemar had not been reading the paper two minutes, when a man, who had just entered the cafe, walked straight to the table at which he was seated, and tapped him on the shoulder, saying:

"Well, my boy, here I am, too; as prompt as the sun in pleasant weather.

I didn't forget our appointment, you see. Good-afternoon, Adhemar, I am delighted to see you once more! You're well, I trust? So am I, as you see. Everybody says that I have a prosperous face. Indeed, sometimes it irritates me to hear it, because I have noticed that prosperity often has a stupid look. But I hope that mine isn't so bad as that!"

This second individual was a man of about thirty years, who looked fully as old as he was, because he was a little inclined to corpulency; rather below than above medium height, with a full, high-colored face, always wreathed in smiles, a forest of light hair which curled naturally, china-blue eyes, as round as a cat's, and large mutton-chop whiskers--such was Philemon Dubotte, who considered himself a very good-looking fellow, and paid court to all the ladies except his own wife, whom he neglected shamefully, but who, on the contrary, adored him, and was always lavishing caresses on him. But the ladies are often like that: the colder you are with them, the more ardent they are with you; perhaps I shall be told that it is because they want to warm you.

Adhemar shook hands with the new-comer.

"How are you, Philemon! come and sit down. Yes, you have a look of robust health which does one good to see!"

"I haven't the look of it only, I beg you to believe. I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis. By the way, is Porte Saint-Denis still standing?"

"Yes, to be sure!"

"I didn't know; so many things are being demolished in these days! Well, then, I repeat: I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis."

"I see that you remembered."

"Why in the devil shouldn't I?"

"In five years one forgets so many things, my friend!"

"In love, that may be; but not in friendship."

"Men forget in friendship, as well as in love. Memory is a rare thing in this world, especially memory of the heart."

"Ah! there you are! the same as ever--no confidence in anything or anybody!"

"Is it my fault, my dear fellow, if my confidence has always been betrayed? Time destroys all our illusions, and in the last five years I have lost an infernal lot of them."

"Well, I haven't lost anything at all. I still adore the fair s.e.x, which, I venture to say, repays my adoration with interest--too earnestly, in fact. For I have a wife--you don't know my wife, I believe? I'll introduce you to her; my dear fellow, she adores me, she idolizes me! It's a genuine pa.s.sion. When she goes half a day without seeing me, she's as good as dead: she doesn't eat, she pines and languishes, sometimes she weeps even. When I come home, I have to scold her. 'eleonore,' I say--her name's eleonore--'why, Nonore, what does this mean? What! can't I stay out a little late with friends, without finding you in tears when I come home?' And she throws her arms round my neck, and says: 'I thought you'd fallen off the top of an omnibus! I beg you, my love, don't ride in the three-sou seats. Go inside, Philemon, I implore you; ride inside; you'll make me so much happier!'--That's the kind of a woman my wife is, and I a.s.sure you it's an infernal bore to be loved like that!"

"You complain because the bride is too fair, but it won't always be so."

"I trust not--poor Nonore! If she knew how unworthy I am of such adoration--for I am a double-dyed villain: I can't see a pretty face without ogling it. Ah! I see Lucien yonder. Well, well! I really believe we shall have the whole party."

The individual who was approaching the table at which the two friends were seated was a young man of twenty-six, tall and slight, and extremely thin; his face was pale, but his features were rather fine; the expression of the eyes was very sweet, and his manners as well as his speech were calculated to inspire interest. His dress was extremely neat, but did not denote affluence; his black frock-coat, b.u.t.toned to the chin, had evidently been brushed frequently, and you would hardly have dared to detain him by grasping one of its skirts, lest it should remain in your hand. His black cravat showed only a tiny bit of collar, and his hat seemed to have been scrubbed with water; but his gray trousers were spotlessly clean; and his shoes, albeit not of patent leather, were carefully polished. The young man's name was Lucien Grischard.

As soon as he caught sight of him, Adhemar rose and extended his hand, crying out:

"How are you, Lucien, dear old Lucien! how glad I am to see you! for it's a long while--nearly two years--since I laid eyes on you."

"That is true, Monsieur Adhemar, and I am very glad to see you, too. I have been waiting impatiently for this day, which was to bring us together."

"Why on earth do you call me _monsieur_, and not Adhemar, as you used to? Am I not still your old boarding-school comrade?"

"Forgive me! but that was so long ago, and for the last five years you have had nothing but success in literary and dramatic work; you have become a celebrity! while I have remained in obscurity."

"My dear Lucien, if celebrity is to result in separating us from our friends, we ought to shrink from it instead of longing for it. I fancy that mine hasn't yet acquired such dimensions as to make me a subject of envy."

"Oh! pray don't think that I ever had a suspicion of that sentiment when I heard of your triumphs. On the contrary, I was always overjoyed, and said to myself: 'He, at least, is making his way!'"

While this third member of the party was talking with Adhemar, the sandy-haired Philemon scrutinized him with unremitting attention, and the aspect of the threadbare coat and the cleaned hat did not seem to add great zest to his friendship; however, he too shook hands with Lucien, and said to him in an almost patronizing tone:

"Good-afternoon, Lucien! how are you, my boy? Sapristi! you haven't put on much flesh since I saw you last!"

"I can't say the same for you, Philemon, for you are almost the shape of a barrel."

"Oh! a barrel; that's putting it a little strong; but, after all, I would rather resemble a barrel than the barrel of a gun."

Instead of losing his temper at this comparison, Lucien laughed heartily, while Adhemar interposed with:

"Well, well, messieurs, how's this? old schoolfellows meeting after five years, and making unkind remarks to each other! is that the way to meet after a l.u.s.trum has pa.s.sed over our heads, and have you become so sensitive that you lose your tempers over a jest?"

"Oh! I am not angry in the least," replied Lucien; "far from it; Philemon's remark made me laugh, as you see."

"For my part," said Dubotte, "I confess that I can't endure being compared to a barrel; any sobriquet you please, except that. But I don't bear Lucien any ill will. Come, sit down here with us, my dear fellow, and take something."

"Thanks; but we're not all here yet: someone is missing--Dodichet."

"Oh! we can't count on him. Was Dodichet ever a man of his word? Why, he doesn't know what it is to keep a promise! He's a good fellow enough, but an erratic, rattle-brained creature, who always has a thousand schemes on hand, but never carries out one of them, and never remembers one day what he said the day before."

"The devil! you judge him rather harshly, Philemon!"