Bernardin saluted his late master's son with the utmost respect, and took his leave.

Some time after, when he was in a most desperate plight, Arthur Cherami had renewed his urgent solicitations to Bernardin, in the hope of obtaining a little interest in advance or a portion of the princ.i.p.al; but all his entreaties were of no avail. The old fellow was not to be moved, and his resolution was the more inflexible because he knew that by acting thus he was saving a modest income for his benefactor's son.

The years pa.s.sed. Far from becoming wiser in the school of adversity, the ci-devant Beau Arthur retained the same pa.s.sions, the same faults, and the same impertinence, as in his prosperous days. Doubtless forty-six francs a month is a very small allowance; it amounts to about thirty sous per day; and when with that amount a man must board, lodge, and clothe himself, he must needs live very sparingly. However, in this Paris of ours, where living is said to be so expensive, since the opening of those beneficent establishments for the sale of soup and cooked beef, and especially since those establishments have conceived the happy idea of serving their own products, a man may dine for seven sous; yes, reader, for seven sous! to wit: soup, two sous; beef, three sous; bread, two sous. And that man will have eaten more healthful and more nourishing food than he who, for thirty-two sous, regales himself with soup, his choice of three entrees, dessert, bread at discretion, and a pint of wine.

But when Monsieur Cherami received his quarterly interest, instead of husbanding that small sum, his last resource, paying some few debts, and dining inexpensively at one of the soup-kitchens, he would betake himself, with head erect and an arrogant air, to one of the best restaurants in Paris, take his seat with a great flourish, call the waiter, and order a sumptuous dinner of the daintiest dishes and the most expensive wines; and all in such wise that everybody who was in the room could hear him. In short, he would resume his role of dandy, forgetting that he no longer wore the costume of the role, yet imposing respect on the mult.i.tude by his lordly manner.

Some said: "He's an original, who affects a shabby costume to conceal the fact that he's a millionaire." Others: "He is some foreigner, some eminent personage, who desires to remain incognito in Paris."

And the waiters served promptly and with the utmost respect this party in a threadbare frock-coat, who ate truffled partridges and drank champagne frappe; and when he paid his bill, Cherami never took the change which the waiter brought him, even if it amounted to two or three francs.

"All right!" he would cry; "keep that; it's for you!"

Thereupon, the waiter would bow to the ground before so generous a patron; and he would stalk forth proudly from the restaurant, enchanted with the effect he had produced. And the next morning he would have nothing with which to procure a dinner.

I beg you not to believe that this character is an imaginary one; that there are no men foolish enough to act in this way; there are, and many of them. For our own part, we have known more than one.

But when naught remained of the small quarterly payment, he had to live anew on loans and stratagems; he had to content himself with the very modest fare of a cheap restaurant, where the mistress was willing to supply him on credit because he flattered her and compared her with Venus, although she was blear-eyed and had a purple nose. In that place he could not order champagne and truffles, to be sure; that would have been a waste of time; but Cherami found a way, none the less, to make a sensation: shouting louder than anybody else, bewildering everybody with his chatter, and always having some marvellous adventure to relate, of which he was the hero, and in which he had performed wonderful exploits.

If one of his auditors seemed to doubt the veracity of his narrative, he would insult him, threaten him, challenge him, insist on fighting him instanter, and, in order to pacify my gentleman and restore peace, the person abused must needs treat him to nothing less than a cup of coffee followed by a _pet.i.t verre_ of liqueur. As for the waiters, as he had nothing to give them, he treated them like dogs, and threatened them with his switch when they did not serve him promptly enough.

If, instead of pa.s.sing his time in smoking and loitering, Monsieur Cherami had chosen to do something, he might have increased his income, and have lived without constantly resorting to loans. He was well informed; he retained from his early education a superficial idea of many things; he knew quite a lot, in fact, and might have pa.s.sed for a scholar in the eyes of those who knew nothing. His handwriting was so good that he could have obtained work as a copyist. In his youth, he had studied music, and he could play the violin a little; he might have made something of his talent in that direction and have found a place in the orchestra of a second-cla.s.s theatre, or played in dance-halls for the grisette and the mechanic.

But the ci-devant Beau Arthur considered every sort of work that was suggested to him very far beneath him; he thought that he would degrade himself by becoming a copyist or a minstrel, and he was not ashamed to borrow a hundred sous when he knew that he could not repay them. What do such people understand by the word _honor_? Let us conclude that they fashion a kind of honor for their own use, just as some painters paint scenes from nature in which there is nothing natural, but which by common consent are called conventional nature.

One day, when he was without a sou, having been denied by all those from whom he had sought to borrow, and not daring to go to his cheap restaurant, because the mistress was absent, Cherami found himself confronted by the stern necessity of going without a mouthful of dinner, when it occurred to him to call upon his payer of interest. So he set out for the abode of the coal dealer, saying to himself on the way:

"Bernardin always refuses to make me the smallest advance; but, sacrebleu! when I tell him that I have nothing with which to pay for a dinner, it isn't possible that he will let me starve to death."

The modest tradesman was just about to sit down to dinner with his family when Cherami appeared, crying:

"The deuce! it would seem that you are about to dine! You're very lucky!

For my part, I haven't the means to pay for a dinner. Lend me a crown, Bernardin, so that I can satisfy my hunger, too."

"I never have money to loan," the coal dealer replied respectfully; "but if monsieur will do us the honor to take a seat at our table, we shall be happy to offer him a share of our modest dinner."

"Oho! that's your game! Well, so be it!" rejoined Cherami, taking his seat without further parley.

But Bernardin's dinner was very simple; it consisted of soup, beef, and a dish of potatoes. The wine was Argenteuil, and very new.

Cherami exclaimed that the soup was watery, the beef tough, and the wine execrable; for dessert there was nothing but a piece of Gerome cheese, which he declared to be fit only for masons; and he was much surprised that they did not take coffee after the meal; in short, he rose from the table in a vile humor, saying to Bernardin and his wife:

"You live very badly, my dears; you live like rustics; I shall not dine with you again."

That was his only word of thanks to his hosts.

VIII

THE RESTAURANT IN PARC SAINT-FARGEAU

On the day on which our tale opens, Arthur Cherami found himself anew in this perplexing plight, which was aggravated by the circ.u.mstance that he had gone without dinner on the preceding day.

To be sure, he had only to go to Bernardin's, where he was very sure that they would not refuse to give him a dinner, in default of cash. But you know that our ex-high-liver was far from satisfied with the meal of which he had partaken at the coal dealer's board; not only did he find everything bad, for my gentleman, even in his poverty, was still very hard to please, but he had discovered that at his debtor's house it would be of no use for him to try to _blaguer_--that is to say, to put on airs, to lie, to display his impertinence. The coal dealer's family did not even smile at the extraordinary tales he told, and it was that fact which had irritated Cherami even more than the simplicity of the dinner, perhaps. At the cheap resort to which he was obliged to go sometimes, he was content with a wretched, ill-cooked dish, because, while he ate it, he could talk at the top of his voice, speechify, and force most of the habitues of the place to listen to him. We know how he compelled those who ventured not to believe all that he said to pay for his coffee.

Arthur had no business whatever at the omnibus office, but he knew that one frequently meets acquaintances at such places. Amid the constant going and coming, departures and arrivals, it is no uncommon thing to meet someone whom you have not seen for a long time, and whom you did not know to be in Paris. So that Arthur, who had nothing to do, frequently visited the railroad stations, where he walked to and fro in front of the ticket offices, as if he were expecting someone; and, in fact, he was always expecting that chance would bring there some acquaintance from whom he could borrow five francs.

Or he would go and take his stand in front of an omnibus office, always with the same hope. On this occasion he had, in fact, met several acquaintances, but the result had not fulfilled his expectations. Coldly greeted by Papa Blanquette, repulsed by Madame Capucine, he was beginning to think that he should not make his expenses, and he said to himself, but not aloud as usual:

"Sapristi! what times are these we live in? The world is becoming vile beyond cleansing! No courtesy, no affability, no good manners! Formerly, when I met a friend, my first words were: 'You must come to dine with me.'--He might accept or not, but I had made the offer. To-day, I meet n.o.body but cads, who are very careful not to offer me the slightest thing; indeed, many of them presume to pa.s.s me by, and act as if they didn't know me. There are others who carry their insolence so far as to dare to ask me for some paltry hundred-sou pieces which they have loaned me and I have not paid. Pardieu! I've loaned them plenty of 'em in the old days; and I never asked for them, because I knew it would be of no use. As if one ever returned money loaned among friends! As if what belongs to one doesn't belong to the other! That's the way I understand friendship--that n.o.ble, genuine friendship which united Castor and Pollux, Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades.

Do we find in the _Iliad_ that Patroclus ever said to Achilles: 'I loaned you a hundred sous, or twenty francs; I want you to pay them'?

Bah! nothing of the sort; there's no instance in history of such a thing! And I defy all my former companions in pleasure to cite a single one. However, I am conscious to-day that the need of eating is making itself felt; I can't go to my little cabaret on Rue Ba.s.se-du-Temple, for the mistress is sick; her husband takes her place at the desk, and he is always ill-disposed toward me; he presumes to ask me for money! Vile turnspit! do you suppose I would go to your place for food if I had money? Ah! there's Bernardin; I am sure of a dinner there; but I am horribly bored with those good people. And then, it wounds my self-esteem to dine with one of my father's former clerks. Corbleu! can it be that, like t.i.tus, I have wasted my day?"

And Cherami, still tapping his trousers with his switch, cast his eyes about him. Thereupon he spied the two girls who were waiting to go to Belleville.

"There are two little grisettes, whose aspect rather pleases me," he said to himself, throwing his weight on his left hip; "a blonde and a brunette--meat for the king's attorney, as we used to say at the club.

They're pretty hussies both; the blonde has a rather stupid look, but the dark one has wit in her eye.--Suppose I should try to make a conquest by offering them a good dinner? Ten to one, they'll accept! I know the s.e.x; these girls are so fond of eating! Yes, but in that case--they'll have to pay for the dinner; that might embarra.s.s them, and I don't want to embarra.s.s any woman. But if I did, I should do no more than avenge myself."

While making these reflections, Cherami had walked toward the young women; he struck a pose in front of them, humming a lively tune, and darted a glance at them into which he put all the seductiveness of which he was still capable. The young women looked at each other and laughed heartily; Mademoiselle Laurette went so far as to say, in a bantering tone:

"That must be a smoke-pipe from the Opera-Comique that has a vent in this neighborhood; however, it's better than an escape of gas."

"Aha! we are clever and satirical!" said Cherami, addressing Mademoiselle Laurette; "I had guessed as much, simply by observing your saucy face."

"Why, I don't know what you mean, monsieur!" replied the girl, trying to a.s.sume a serious expression.

"I was simply answering the reflection in which you just indulged on the subject of a roulade which I ventured to perform, and which, perhaps, was not rendered with perfect accuracy."

"But, monsieur, I really didn't know that you were singing; I was saying to my friend Lucie that we should be very late in getting to the restaurant in Parc Saint-Fargeau, and that I didn't know whether there was dancing there on Sat.u.r.day."

"Aha! so the young ladies are going to Parc Saint-Fargeau?--That is just beyond Belleville, I believe?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And there's a restaurant there now, where they have dancing? Pardon me, I ask simply for information, being a great lover of places where one can dine well--and enjoy one's self; and it's a long while since I have been in that neighborhood."

"In that case, you'll find great changes. Yes, monsieur; there is a restaurant now in Parc Saint-Fargeau, with a large garden where there's a pond. But it's no toy pond; it's big enough for a boat, and you can go rowing; it's quite big, and there's an island in it which you can row around if you're very careful, for the water's quite deep."

"You can be drowned in it," observed Mademoiselle Lucie.

"Oho! one has also the right to drown one's self, eh?"

"Why, yes! if you should fall into the water!"

"True. And there's a dance-hall, you say?"

"Yes, monsieur; one out-of-doors, and one inside for rainy days."