I'd have bet my life on it!"

Sans-Cravate turned, and saw Bastringuette come out of the house they had just left and turn into Rue Barbette. The tall girl walked quite slowly, and stopped for a moment to take out her handkerchief and wipe her eyes, as if she had been crying; then she walked on.

Sans-Cravate had ample time to examine her; there was no doubt that it was she. He even recognized the silk handkerchief she took from her pocket, for it was a present he had given her. He could not take his eyes from his mistress; his face flushed, and his whole frame shook convulsively.

"It's her," he muttered; "in the same house with him. There's no mystery now--they were together, that's clear as day, the traitors! and, of course, to-day ain't the first time they've met there!"

He started to run after Bastringuette, who had not seen him; and Jean Ficelle, who hoped there would be a scene, rubbed his hands and smiled to himself. But his hope was soon crushed; Sans-Cravate stopped, making a mighty effort to restrain his pa.s.sion, and retraced his steps.

"No," he said, "I won't go after her; for I might forget myself. When I'm angry, I don't know what I'm doing, and I might do some harm. No; let's go in the other direction!"

"Pardieu! suppose you did give her a beating--a jade that deceived you--I don't see where there'd be any great harm done! Why shouldn't you take that little satisfaction?"

But Sans-Cravate was not listening; he had walked away, and was already at some distance. Jean Ficelle finally decided to follow him, saying to himself:

"Never mind; he's out for good with his wench, and I'm quite sure the young fellow will get what he deserves, when there's a good chance. Then Sans-Cravate will consent to come and play a little game with his friends, and I'll fleece him at _table-ba.s.se_ or _biribi_."

XV

THE DRESSMAKERS

Imagine eight young women a.s.sembled in a large room, called an _atelier_[H] probably because it contains no furniture except a very broad and long table and some chairs.

On the table, which might be considered a counter as well, were scattered different fabrics--silk, linen, cotton, and muslin; there was a great number of small pieces, cut in different shapes; there were dresses just begun, others almost finished, others still in the piece; and there were ribbons, fringes, lace, and a mult.i.tude of the odds and ends used by dressmakers, who have the art of imparting grace and value to all such things; we men do very wrong to laugh at them, for they take so much pains with their work solely to please us; and if women were not coquettish, we should be the ones most taken in.

The eight girls were seated around the _travail_--that is the name now given to the large cutting table; it used to be called _etabli_, but that word is now used only by working people; and you must remember that a dressmaker is not a workgirl, but an artist in dresses.

The young women were from fifteen to twenty-eight years of age, the average being about twenty-two. Some were very pretty, some exceedingly ugly, and some had faces of the type which does not attract attention, but which often pleases because it possesses what is commonly called _la beaute du diable_--that is to say, youth. If the devil always retains that element of beauty, he is a very fortunate fellow; and we know a great number of ladies, once beautiful, who would be well content to-day with the _beaute du diable_.

They were all sewing more or less busily, which fact did not prevent their talking. Some had their faces bent over their work, and took little part in the conversation; but there were several who talked constantly, who were unwilling to keep silent even when one of the others tried to tell something, and who, by talking very loudly, succeeded in making themselves heard above all the rest. At times, this produced a din of voices by no means pleasant to the ear; indeed, it was not unworthy of the name of _charivari_.

Young Elina was one of the eight; she was incontestably one of the prettiest of them, also one of those who spoke least; she was superior to her companions in every respect.

One of the others, whose ugliness was most noticeable, and whose duty it seemed to be to overlook the work, doubtless because she had no love affairs to distract her thoughts, was also one of those whose mouths were almost never closed. But a tall damsel of twenty-four, whose face was not without charm and intelligence, but who was open to the reproach of being somewhat too free in her speech and manner and expression, ran a close second to the forewoman. A stenographer would have had much difficulty in following those two when they were in a talking mood, so to speak; and they almost always were.

Now, let us listen to the conversation, and try, amid all that chaos, to discover its subject and purport.

"What have you done with the gray silk, Mademoiselle Laura?"

"It's under your nose, you big goose; your nose is so long, you could touch it with it."

Mademoiselle Laura was the tall young woman we have mentioned; as she worked and talked, she kept her hips in motion as if she were dancing the _cachucha_. The forewoman's name was Mademoiselle Frotard, and she who had asked for the silk was a stout girl whose intelligence seemed to have been entirely absorbed by her corpulence; her name was Julienne, but her companions took the liberty of calling her Julie, Jules, and sometimes _Potage_. She had an excellent disposition and never lost her temper.

"Who's got the pink satin?"

"That will be a handsome dress--satin and velvet. Is it for a d.u.c.h.ess?"

"Oh, no! it's for an actress at the Opera-Comique; they dress ever so much better than the great ladies."

"Speaking of the Opera-Comique, they say that there's boxes there with salons; is that so, Mamzelle Laura?"

"Well, rather, nephew."

"Come, come, mesdemoiselles, we must work and not idle so; here's a wedding dress that must be done to-morrow; Madame Dumanchon has promised it."

"It seems to me, we work well enough, mademoiselle; we don't take our eyes off our work. What more do you expect us to do? We haven't got twenty fingers!"

"That's all right, Mademoiselle Augustine; do you think I don't see you laughing and looking at Euphemie, who can't do anything but laugh?

Humph! how stupid it is to laugh all the time, at the least thing--and often without knowing why!"

"I never laugh without knowing what I'm laughing at, mademoiselle!

You're mistaken; I know very well what I'm laughing at."

"Well, tell us what it was that amused you so just now."

"Just now? why, I looked up and saw Jujules gaping and trying to sneeze at the same time; and she made up such an absurd face! Ha! ha! ha! she looked exactly like the milkwoman's donkey at the corner of the street."

"I, look like a donkey!"

"Hush, Potage, you haven't got the floor! I belch it from you, as an ancient orator said."

"Oh! Mademoiselle Laura, for heaven's sake, be a little more decent in your language; you often say things that ought not be said in a workroom of young ladies; Madame Dumanchon don't like it, and she holds me responsible."

"What's that? what are you singing to us? You accuse me of being indecent just because I say: 'I belch it from you'! That's a little rough, on my word! if you read the least bit of history, you'd know that anecdote, which isn't the least bit immoral, Mademoiselle Frotard; and for all you're so squeamish to-day, I've heard you sometimes fire words at us--I don't know where you picked 'em up, but they were a little tough."

"I, fire words at you!--Oh! if I went to the Bal Saint-Georges, like you, I might learn some very pretty things; but I defy anyone to say they ever saw me in such places."

"It's just as well you don't go; what would you do there? you probably wouldn't be invited to dance! and that would make you sick. By the way, let me tell you that the Bal Saint-Georges is a very nice place; the company there's a very good sort, and I pride myself on being one of the most regular attendants at these Ball-Clubs, as the wrinkled old _gentlemen_ call 'em, who go there to dance the _anglaise_ and other national jigs."

"Where's the piece of velvet I just put down here? Have any of you taken it, mesdemoiselles?"

"You've got it in your dress."

"So I have; great heaven! what was I thinking about?"

"Ha! ha! she sticks things in her bosom and then goes looking for 'em!

She'll end by looking for her nose."

"And she won't find it; she's flat-nosed."

"Ha! ha! ha!"

"Good! there goes Euphemie again!"

"Bless my soul! how can I help laughing, when you say such silly things?"