The Exploits of Juve Part 1

The Exploits of Juve.

by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain.

I

THE COMRADES' TRYST

"A bowl of claret, Father Korn."

The raucous voice of big Ernestine rose above the hubbub in the smoke-begrimed tavern.

"Some claret, and let it be good," repeated the drab, a big, fair damsel with puckered eyes and features worn by dissipation.

Father Korn had heard the first time, but he was in no hurry to comply with the order.

He was a bald, whiskered giant, and at the moment was busily engaged in swilling dirty gla.s.ses in a sink filled with tepid water.

This tavern, "The Comrades' Tryst," had two rooms, each with its separate exit. Mme. Korn presided over the first in which food and drink were served. By pa.s.sing through the door at the far end, and crossing the inner courtyard of the large seven-story building, the second "den"

was reached--a low and ill-lit room facing the Rue de la Charbonniere, a street famed in the district for its bad reputation.

At a third summons, Father Korn, who had sized up the girl and the crowd she was with, growled:

"It'll be two moons; hand over the stuff first."

Big Ernestine rose, and pushing her way to him, began a long argument.

When she stopped to draw a breath, Korn interposed:

"It's no use trying that game. I said two francs and two francs it is."

"All right, I won't argue with a brute like you," replied the girl.

"Everyone knows that you and Mother Korn are Germans, dirty Prussians."

The innkeeper smiled quietly and went on washing his gla.s.ses.

Big Ernestine glanced around the room. She knew the crowd and quickly decided that the cash would not be forthcoming.

For a moment she thought of tackling old Mother Toulouche, ensconced in the doorway with her display of portugals and snails, but dame Toulouche, snuggled in her old shawl, was fast asleep.

Suddenly from a corner of the tavern, a weary voice cried with authority:

"Go ahead, Korn, I'll stand treat."

It was the Sapper who had spoken.

A man of fifty who owed his nickname to the current report that he had spent twenty years in Africa, both as a soldier and a convict.

While Ernestine and her friends hastened to his table, the Sapper's companion, a heavily built man, rose carelessly and slouched off to join another group, muttering:

"I'm too near the window here."

"It's Nonet," explained the Sapper to Ernestine. "He's home from New Caledonia, and he doesn't care to show himself much just now."

The girl nodded, and pointing to one of her companions, became confidential. "Look at poor Mimile, here. He's just out of quod and has to start right off to do his service. Pretty tough."

The Sapper became very interested in the conversation. Meanwhile Nonet, as he crossed the tap-room, had stopped a few moments before a pretty girl who was evidently expecting some one.

"Waiting again for the Square, eh, Josephine?" Nonet inquired.

The girl, whose big blue eyes contrasted strikingly with her jet black hair, replied:

"Why not? Loupart doesn't think of quitting me that I know of."

"Well, when he does let me know," Nonet suggested smilingly.

Josephine shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, and, glancing at the clock above the bar, rose suddenly and left the tap-room.

She went rapidly down the Rue Charbonniere and along the boulevard, in the direction of the Barbes Metropolitan Station. On reaching the level of the Boulevard Magenta, she slackened and walked along the right-hand pavement toward the centre of Paris.

"My little Jojo!"

The girl who, after leaving the tavern, had a.s.sumed a quiet and modest air, now came face to face with a stout gentleman with a jovial face and one gleaming eye, the other eye being permanently closed. He wore a beard turning grey and his derby hat and light cane placed him as belonging to the middle cla.s.s.

"How late you are, my adored Jojo," he murmured tenderly. "That accursed workshop been keeping you again after hours?"

The mistress of Loupart checked a smile.

"That's it!" she replied, "the workshop, M. Martialle."

The man addressed made a warning gesture.

"Don't mention my name here; I'm almost home." He pulled out his watch.

"Too bad; I'll have to go in or my wife will kick up a row. Let's see, this is Tuesday; well, Sat.u.r.day I'm off to Burgundy on my usual half-monthly trip. Meet me at the Lyons station, platform No. 2, Ma.r.s.eilles express. We won't be back till Monday. A delightful week-end of love-making with my darling who at last consents.... What's that!"

The stout man broke off his impa.s.sioned harangue. A beggar, emerging from the darkness, importuned him:

"Have pity on me, kind sir."

"Give him something," urged Josephine.

The middle-aged lover complied and tenderly drew away the pretty girl, repeating carefully the details of the a.s.signation:

"Lyons Station; a quarter past eight. The train leaves at twenty to nine."

Then suddenly dropping Josephine's arm:

"Now, sweetheart, you'd better hurry home to your good mother, and remember Sat.u.r.day."