CHAPTER XXXI.
FANCIES ABOUT FACES.
The sketch-book was undoubtedly gone, and the stranger had undoubtedlytaken it. How he took it, and how he vanished, remained a mystery.
The aspect of affairs, meanwhile, was materially changed. Mueller nolonger stood in the position of a leniently-treated offender. He hadbecome accuser, and plaintiff. A grave breach of the law had beencommitted, and he was the victim of a bold and skilful _tour de main_.
The police shook their heads, twirled their moustaches, and looked wise.
It was a case of premeditated assault--in short, of robbery withviolence. It must be inquired into--reported, of course, athead-quarters, without loss of time. Would Monsieur be pleased todescribe the stolen sketch-book? An oblong, green volume, secured by anelastic band; contains sketches in pencil and water-colors; valueuncertain--Good. And the accused ... would Monsieur also be pleased todescribe the person of the accused? His probable age, for instance; hisheight; the color of his hair, eyes, and beard? Good again. Lastly,Monsieur's own name and address, exactly and in full. _Tres-bon._ Itmight, perhaps, be necessary for Monsieur to enter a formal depositionto-morrow morning at the Prefecture of Police, in which case due noticewould be given.
Whereupon he who seemed to be chief of the twain, having enteredMueller's replies in a greasy pocket-book of stupendous dimensions, whichhe seemed to wear like a cuirass under the breast of his uniform,proceeded to interrogate the proprietor and waiters.
Was the accused an habitual frequenter of the cafe?--No. Did theyremember ever to have seen him there before?--No. Should they recognisehim if they saw him again? To this question the answers were doubtful.One waiter thought he should recognise the man; another was not sure;and Monsieur the proprietor admitted that he had himself been too angryto observe anything or anybody very minutely.
Finally, having made themselves of as much importance and asked as manyquestions as possible, the sergents de ville condescended to accept acouple of-petits verres a-piece, and then, with much lifting of cockedhats and clattering of sabres, departed.
Most of the students had ere this dropped off by twos and threes, andwere gone to their day's work, or pleasure--to return again in equalforce about five in the afternoon. Of those that remained, some five orsix came up when the police were gone, and began chatting about therobbery. When they learned that Flandrin had desired to have a sketch ofthe man's head; when Mueller described his features, and I his obstinatereserve and semi-military air, their excitement knew no bounds. Each hadimmediately his own conjecture to offer. He was a political spy, andtherefore fearful lest his portrait should be recognised. He was aconspirator of the Fieschi school. He was Mazzini in person.
In the midst of the discussion, a sudden recollection flashed upon me.
"A clue! a clue!" I shouted triumphantly. "He left his coat and blackbag hanging up in the corner!"
Followed by the others, I ran to the spot where I had been sittingbefore the affray began. But my exultation was shortlived. Coat and bag,like their owner, had disappeared.
Mueller thrust his hands into his pockets, shook his head, and whistleddismally.
"I shall never see my sketch-book again, _parbleu!_" said he. "The manwho could not only take it out of my breast-pocket, but also in the veryteeth of the police, secure his property and escape unseen, is a masterof his profession. Our friends in the cocked hats have no chanceagainst him."
"And Flandrin, who is expecting the sketch," said I; "what of him?"
Mueller shrugged his shoulders.
"Next to being beaten," growled he, "there's nothing I hate likeconfessing it. However, it has to be done--so the sooner the better.Would you like to come with me? You'll see his studio."
I was only too glad to accompany him; for to me, as to most of us, therewas ever a nameless charm in the picturesque litter of an artist'sstudio. Mueller's own studio, however, was as yet the only one I hadseen. He laughed when I said this.
"If your only notion of a studio is derived from that specimen," saidhe, "you will he agreeably surprised by the contrast. He calls his placea 'den,' but that's a metaphor. Mine is a howling wilderness."
Arriving presently at a large house at the bottom of a courtyard in theRue Vaugirard, he knocked at a small side-door bearing a tiny brassplate not much larger than a visiting-card, on which wasengraved--"Monsieur Flandrin."
The door opened by some invisible means from within, and we entered apassage dimly lighted by a painted glass door at the farther end. Mycompanion led the way down this passage, through the door, and into asmall garden containing some three or four old trees, a rustic seat, asun-dial on an antique-looking fragment of a broken column, and a littleweed-grown pond about the size of an ordinary drawing-room table,surrounded by artificial rock-work.
At the farther extremity of this garden, filling the whole space fromwall to wall, and occupying as much ground as must have been equal tohalf the original enclosure, stood a large, new, windowless building, inshape exactly like a barn, lighted from a huge skylight in the roof, andentered by a small door in one corner. I did not need to be told thatthis was the studio.
But if the outside was like a barn, the inside was like a beautifulmediaeval interior by Cattermole--an interior abounding in rich andcostly detail; in heavy crimson draperies, precious old Italiancabinets, damascened armor, carved chairs with upright backs and twistedlegs, old paintings in massive Florentine frames, and strange quaintpieces of Elizabethan furniture, like buffets, with open shelves full ofrare and artistic things--bronzes, ivory carvings, unwieldy Majolicajars, and lovely goblets of antique Venetian glass laced with spiralornaments of blue and crimson and that dark emerald green of which thesecret is now lost for ever.
Then, besides all these things, there were great folios leaning piledagainst the walls, one over the other; and Persian rugs of many colorslying here and there about the floor; and down in one corner I observeda heap of little models, useful, no doubt, as accessories inpictures--gondolas, frigates, foreign-looking carts, a tiny sedan chair,and the like.
But the main interest of the scene concentrated itself in the unfinishedpicture, the hired model (a brawny fellow in a close-fitting suit ofblack, leaning on a huge two-handed sword), and the artist in hisholland blouse, with the palette and brushes in his hand.
It was a very large picture, and stood on a monster easel, somewhattowards the end of the studio. The light from above poured full upon thecanvas, while beyond lay a background of shadow. Much of the subject wasas yet only indicated, but enough was already there to tell the tragicstory and display the power of the painter. There, high above the headsof the mounted guards and the assembled spectators, rose the scaffold,hung with black. Egmont, wearing a crimson tabard, a short black cloakembroidered with gold, and a hat ornamented with black and white plumes,stood in a haughty attitude, as if facing the square and the people. Twoother figures, apparently of an ecclesiastic and a Spanish general,partly in outline, partly laid in with flat color, were placed to theright of the principal character. The headsman stood behind, leaningupon his sword. The slender spire of the Hotel de Ville, surmounted byits gilded archangel glittering in the morning sun, rose high against asky of cloudless blue; while all around was seen the well-known squarewith its sculptured gables and decorated facades--every roof, window,and balcony crowded with spectators.
Unfinished though it was, I saw at once that I was brought face to facewith what would some day be a famous work of art. The figures weregrandly grouped; the heads were noble; the sky was full of air; theaction of the whole scene informed with life and motion.
I stood admiring and silent, while Mueller told his tale, and Flandrinpaused in his work to listen.
"It is horribly unlucky," said he. "I had not been able to find aportrait of Romero and, _faute de mieux_, have been trying for dayspast to invent the right sort of head for him--of course, withoutsuccess. You never saw such a heap of failures! But as for that man atthe cafe, if Providence had
especially created him for my purpose, hecould not have answered it better."
"I believe I am as sorry as you can possibly be," said Mueller.
"Then you are very sorry indeed," replied the painter; and he lookedeven more disappointment than he expressed.
"I'm afraid I can't do it," said Mueller, after a moment's silence; "butif you'll give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and credit me with thewill in default of the deed, I will try to sketch the head from memory."
"Ah? if you can only do that! Here is a drawing block--choose whatpencils you prefer--or here are crayons, if you like them better."
Mueller took the pencils and block, perched himself on the corner of atable, and began. Flandrin, breathless with expectation, looked over hisshoulder. Even the model (in the grim character of Egmont's executioner)laid aside his two-handed sword, and came round for a peep.
"Bravo! that's just his nose and brow," said Flandrin, as Mueller's rapidhand flew over the paper. "Yes--the likeness comes with every touch ...and the eyes, so keen and furtive. ... Nay, that eyelid should be alittle more depressed at the corner.... Yes, yes--just so. Admirable!There!--don't attempt to work it up. The least thing might mar thelikeness. My dear fellow, what a service you have rendered me!"
"_Quatre-vingt mille diables_!" ejaculated the model, his eyes rivetedupon the sketch.
Mueller laughed and looked.
"_Tiens_! Guichet," said he, "is that meant for a compliment?"
"Where did you see him?" asked the model, pointing down at the sketch.
"Why? Do you know him?"
"Where did you see him, I say?" repeated Guichet, impatiently.
He was a rough fellow, and garnished every other sentence with an oath;but he did not mean to be uncivil.
"At the Cafe Procope."
"When?"
"About an hour ago. But again, I repeat--do you know him?"
"Do I know him? _Tonnerre de Dieu_!"
"Then who and what is he?"
The model stroked his beard; shook his head; declined to answer.
"Bah!" said he, gloomily, "I may have seen him, or I may be mistaken.'Tis not my affair."
"I suspect Guichet knows something against this interesting stranger,"laughed Flandrin. "Come, Guichet, out with it! We are among friends."
But Guichet again looked at the drawing, and again shook his head.
"I'm no judge of pictures, messieurs," said he. "I'm only a poor devilof a model. How can I pretend to know a man from such a _griffonage_as that?"
And, taking up his big sword again, he retreated to his former post overagainst the picture. We all saw that he was resolved to say no more.
Flandrin, delighted with Mueller's sketch, put it, with many thanks andpraises, carefully away in one of the great folios against the wall.
"You have no idea, _mon cher_ Mueller," he said, "of what value it is tome. I was in despair about the thing till I saw that fellow this morningin the Cafe; and he looked as if he had stepped out of the Middle Ageson purpose for me. It is quite a mediaeval face--if you know what I meanby a mediaeval face."
"I think I do," said Mueller. "You mean that there was a moyen-age type,as there was a classical type, and as there is a modern type."
"Just so; and therein lies the main difficulty that we historicalpainters have to encounter. When we cannot find portraits of ourcharacters, we are driven to invent faces for them--and who can inventwhat he never sees? Invention must be based on some kind of experience;and to study old portraits is not enough for our purpose, except wefrankly make use of them as portraits. We cannot generalize upon them,so as to resuscitate a vanished type."
"But then has it really vanished?" said Mueller. "And how can we know forcertain that the mediaeval type did actually differ from the type we seebefore us every day?"
"By simple and direct proof--by studying the epochs of portraitpainting. Take Holbein's heads, for instance. Were not the people of histime grimmer, harder-visaged, altogether more unbeautiful than thepeople of ours? Take Petitot's and Sir Peter Lely's. Can you doubt thatthe characteristics of their period were entirely different? Do yousuppose that either race would look as we look, if resuscitated andclothed in the fashion of to-day?"
"I am not at all sure that we should observe any difference," saidMueller, doubtfully.
"And I feel sure we should observe the greatest," replied Flandrin,striding up and down the studio, and speaking with great animation. "Ibelieve, as regards the men and women of Holbein's time, that theirfaces were more lined than ours; their eyes, as a rule, smaller--theirmouths wider--their eyebrows more scanty--their ears larger--theirfigures more ungainly. And in like manner, I believe the men and womenof the seventeenth century to have been more fleshy than eitherHolbein's people or ourselves; to have had rounder cheeks, eyes moreprominent and heavy-lidded, shorter noses, more prominent chins, andlips of a fuller and more voluptuous mould."
"Still we can't be certain how much of all this may be owing to the meremannerisms of successive schools of art," urged Mueller, stickingmanfully to his own opinion. "Where will you find a more decidedmannerist than Holbein? And because he was the first portrait-painter ofhis day, was he not reproduced with all his faults of literalness anddryness by a legion of imitators? So with Sir Peter Lely, with Petitot,with Vandyck, with every great artist who painted kings and queens andcourt beauties. Then, again, a certain style of beauty becomes the rage,and-a skilful painter flatters each fair sitter in turn by bringing upher features, or her expression, or the color of her hair, as near aspossible to the fashionable standard. And further, there is the dress ofa period to be taken into account. Think of the family likeness thatpervades the flowing wigs of the courts of Louis Quatorze and Charlesthe Second--see what powder did a hundred years ago to equalizemankind."
Flandrin shook his head.
"Ingenious, _mon garcon_" said he; "ingenious, but unsound The cut of afair lady's bodice never yet altered the shape of her nose; neither wasit the fashion of their furred surtouts that made Erasmus and Sir ThomasMore as like as twins. What you call the 'mannerism' of Holbein is onlyhis way of looking at his fellow-creatures. He and Sir Antonio More werethe most faithful of portrait-painters. They didn't know how to flatter.They painted exactly what they saw--no more, and no less; so that everyhead they have left us is a chapter in the history of the Middle Ages.The race--depend on't--the race was unbeautiful; and not even thepicturesque dress of the period (which, according to your theory, shouldhave helped to make the wearers of it more attractive) could soften onejot of their plainness."
"I can't bring myself to believe that we were all so ugly--French,English, and Germans alike--only a couple of centuries ago,"said Mueller.
"That is to say, you prefer to believe that Holbein, and Lucas Cranach,and Sir Antonio More, and all their school, were mannerists. Nonsense,my dear fellow--nonsense! _It is Nature who is the mannerist_. She lovesto turn out a certain generation after a particular pattern; and whenshe is tired of that pattern, she invents another. Her fancies last, onthe average about, a hundred years. Sometimes she changes the type quiteabruptly; sometimes modifies it by gentle, yet always perceptible,degrees. And who shall say what her secret processes are? Education,travel, intermarriage with foreigners, the introduction of new kinds offood) the adoption of new habits, may each and all have something to dowith these successive changes; but of one point at least we may becertain--and that is, that we painters are not responsible for hercaprices. Our mission is to interpret Dame Nature more or lessfaithfully, according to our powers; but beyond interpretation we cannotgo. And now (for you know I am as full of speculations as anexperimental philosopher) I will tell you another conclusion I have cometo with regard to this subject; and that is that national types wereless distinctive in mediaeval times than in ours. The French, English,Flemish, and Dutch of the Middle Ages, as we see them in theirportraits, are curiously alike in all outward characteristics. Thecourtiers of Francis the First and their (James, and the lords andladies of t
he court of Henry the Eighth, resemble each other as peopleof one nation. Their features are, as it were, cast in one mould. Soalso with the courts of Louis Quatorze and Charles the Second. As forthe regular French face of to-day, with its broad cheek-bones and hightemples running far up into the hair on either side, that type does notmake its appearance till close upon the advent of the Reign of Terror.But enough! I shall weary you with theories, and wear out the patienceof our friend Guichet, who is sufficiently tired already with waitingfor a head that never comes to be cut off as it ought. Adieu--adieu.Come soon again, and see how I get on with Marshal Romero."
Thus dismissed, we took our leave and left the painter to his work.
"An extraordinary man!" said Mueller, as we passed out again through theneglected garden and paused for a moment to look at some half-dozen fatgold and silver fish that were swimming lazily about the little pond. "Aman made up of contradictions--abounding in energy, yet at the same timethe dreamiest of speculators. An original thinker, too; but wanting thatbasis which alone makes original thinking of any permanent value."
"But," said I, "he is evidently an educated man."
"Yes--educated as most artists are educated; but Flandrin has as stronga bent for science as for art, and deserved something better. Five yearsat a German university would have made of him one of the most remarkablemen of his time. What did you think of his theory of faces?"
"I know nothing of the subject, and cannot form a judgment; but itsounded as if it might be true."
"Yes--just that. It may be true, and it may not. If true, then for myown part I should like to pursue his theory a step further, and tracethe operation of these secret processes by means of whichI am, happily, such a much better-looking fellow than mygreat-great-great-great-grandfather of two hundred years ago. What, forinstance, has the introduction of the potato done for the nosesof mankind?"
Chatting thus, we walked back as far as the corner of the Rue Racine,where we parted; I to attend a lecture at the Ecole de Medecine, andMueller to go home to his studio in the Rue Clovis.
* * * * *
CHAPTER XXXII.
RETURNED WITH THANKS.
A week or two had thus gone by since the dreadful evening at the OperaComique, and all this time I had neither seen nor heard more of the fairJosephine. My acquaintance with Franz Mueller and the life of theQuartier Latin had, on the contrary, progressed rapidly. Just as theaffair of the Opera had dealt a final blow to my romance _a la grisette_on the one hand, so had the excursion to Courbevoie, the visit to theEcole de Natation, and the adventure of the Cafe Procope, fostered myintimacy with the artist on the other. We were both young, somewhatshort of money, and brimful of fun. Each, too, had a certain substratumof earnestness underlying the mere surface-gayety of his character.Mueller was enthusiastic for art; I for poetry; and both for liberty. Ifear, when I look back upon them, that we talked a deal of nonsenseabout Brutus, and the Rights of Man, and the noble savage, and all thatsort of thing, in those hot-headed days of our youth. It was a form ofpolitical measles that the young men of that time were quite as liableto as the young men of our own; and, living as we then were in the heartof the most revolutionary city in Europe, I do not well see how we couldhave escaped the infection. Mueller (who took it worse than I did, andwas very rabid indeed when I first knew him) belonged just then not onlyto the honorable brotherhood of Les Chicards, but also to a smalldebating club that met twice a week in a private room at the back of anobscure Estaminet in the Rue de la Harpe. The members of this club weremostly art-students, and some, like himself, Chicards--generous,turbulent, high-spirited boys, with more enthusiasm than brains, and aflow of words wholly out of proportion to the bulk of their ideas. As Icame to know him more intimately, I used sometimes to go there withMueller, after our cheap dinner in the Quartier and our evening strollalong the Boulevards or the Champs Elysees; and I am bound to admit thatI never, before or since, heard quite so much nonsense of thedeclamatory sort as on those memorable occasions. I did not think itnonsense then, however. I admired it with all my heart; applauded thenursery eloquence of these sucking Mirabeaus and Camille Desmoulins asfrantically as their own vanity could desire; and was even secretlychagrined that my own French was not yet fluent enough to enable me totake part in their discussions.
In the meanwhile, my debts were paid; and, having dropped out of societywhen I fell out of love with Madame de Marignan, I no longer overspentmy allowance. I bought no more bouquets, paid for no more opera-stalls,and hired no more prancing steeds at seven francs the hour. I bade adieuto picture-galleries, flower-shows, morning concerts, dress boots, whitekid gloves, elaborate shirt-fronts, and all the vanities of thefashionable world. In a word, I renounced the Faubourg St. Germain forthe Quartier Latin, and applied myself to such work and such pleasuresas pertained to the locality. If, after a long day at Dr. Cheron's, orthe Hotel Dieu, or the Ecole de Medecine, I did waste a few hours nowand then, I, at least, wasted them cheaply. Cheaply, but oh, sopleasantly! Ah me! those nights at the debating club, those evenings atthe Chicards, those student's balls at the Chaumiere, those third-classtrips to Versailles and Fontainebleau, those one-franc pit seats at theGaiete and the Palais Royal, those little suppers at Pompon's andFlicoteau's--how delightful they were! How joyous! How free from care!And even when we made up a party and treated the ladies (for to treatthe ladies is _de rigueur_ in the code of Quartier Latin etiquette), howlittle it still cost, and what a world of merriment we had forthe money!
It was well for me, too, and a source of much inward satisfaction, thatmy love-affair with Mademoiselle Josephine had faded and died a naturaldeath. We never made up that quarrel of the Opera Comique, and I had notdesired that we should make it up. On the contrary, I was exceedinglyglad of the opportunity of withdrawing my attentions; so I wrote her apolite little note, in which I expressed my regret that our tastes wereso dissimilar and our paths in life so far apart; wished her everyhappiness; assured her that I should ever remember her with friendlyregard; and signed my name with a tremendous flourish at the bottom ofthe second page. With the note, however, I sent her a raised pie and ared and green shawl, of which I begged her acceptance in token of amity;and as neither of those gifts was returned, I concluded that she ate theone and wore the other, and that there was peace between us.
But the scales of fortune as they go up for one, go down for another.This man's luck is balanced by that man's ruin--Orestes falls sick, andPylades returns from Kissingen cured of his lumbago--old Croesus dies,and little Miss Kilmansegg comes into the world with a golden spoon inher mouth, So it fell out with Franz Mueller and myself. As I happilysteered clear of Charybdis, he drifted into Scylla--in other words, justas I recovered from my second attack of the tender passion, he caughtthe epidemic and fancied himself in love with the fair Marie.
I say "fancied," because his way of falling in love was so unlike myway, that I could scarcely believe it to be the same complaint. Itaffected neither his appetite, nor his spirits, nor his wardrobe. Hemade as many puns and smoked as many pipes as usual. He did not even buya new hat. If, in fact, he had not told me himself, I should never haveguessed that anything whatever was the matter with him.
It came out one day when he was pressing me to go with him to a certaintea-party at Madame Marotte's, in the Rue St. Denis.
"You see," said he, "it is _la petite_ Marie's fete; and the party's inher honor; and they'd be so proud if we both went to it; and--and, uponmy soul, I'm awfully fond of that little girl"....
"Of Marie Marotte?"
He nodded.
"You are not serious," I said.
"I am as serious," he replied, "as a dancing dervish."
And then, for I suppose I looked incredulous, he went on to justifyhimself.
"She's very good," he said, "and very pretty. Quite a Madonna face, tomy thinking."
"You may see a dozen such Madonna faces among the nurses in theLuxembourg Gardens, every afternoon of your life," said I.
r /> "Oh, if you come to that, every woman is like every other woman, up to acertain point."
"_Les femmes se suivent et se ressemblent toujours_," said I, parodyinga well-known apothegm.
"Precisely, but then they wear their rue, or cause you to wear yours,'with a difference.' This girl, however, escapes the monotony of her sexby one or two peculiarities:--she has not a bit of art about her, nor ashred of coquetry. She is as simple and as straightforward as anArcadian. She doesn't even know when she is being made love to, orunderstand what you mean, when you pay her a compliment."
"Then she's a phenomenon--and what man in his senses would fall in lovewith a phenomenon?"
"Every man, _mon cher enfant_, who falls in love at all! The woman weworship is always a phenomenon, whether of beauty, or grace, orvirtue--till we find her out; and then, probably, she becomes aphenomenon of deceit, or slovenliness, or bad temper! And now, to returnto the point we started from--will you go with me to Madame Marotte'stea-party to-morrow evening at eight? Don't say 'No,' there's agood fellow."
"I'll certainly not say No, if you particularly want me to say Yes," Ireplied, "but--"
"Prythee, no buts! Let it be Yes, and the thing is settled. So--here weare. Won't you come in and smoke a pipe with me? I've a bottle ofcapital Rhenish in the cupboard."
We had met near the Odeon, and, as our roads lay in the same direction,had gone on walking and talking till we came to Mueller's own door in theRue Clovis. I accepted the invitation, and followed him in. The_portiere_, a sour-looking, bent old woman with a very dirty duster tiedabout her head, hobbled out from her little dark den at the foot of thestairs, and handed him the key of his apartment.
"_Tiens_!" said she, "wait a moment--there's a parcel for you, M'sieurMueller."
And so, hobbling back again, she brought out a small flat brownpaper-packet sealed at both ends.
"Ah, I see--from the Emperor!" said Mueller. "Did he bring it himself,Madame Duphot, or did he send it by the Archbishop of Paris?"
A faint grin flitted over the little old woman's withered face.
"Get along with you, M'sieur Mueller," she said. "You're always playingthe _farceur_! The parcel was brought by a man who looked like astonemason."
"And nobody has called?"
"Nobody, except M'sieur Richard."
"Monsieur Richard's visits are always gratifying and delightful--maythe _diable_ fly away with him!" said Mueller. "What did dear MonsieurRichard want to-day, Madame Duphot?"
"He wanted to see you, and the third-floor gentleman also--about therent."
"Dear Richard! What an admirable memory he has for dates! Did he leaveany message, Madame Duphot?"
The old woman looked at me, and hesitated.
"He says, M'sieur Mueller--he says ..."
"Nay, this gentleman is a friend--you may speak out. What does ourbeloved and respected _proprietaire_ say, Madame Duphot?"
"He says, if you don't both of you pay up the arrears by midday onSunday next, he'll seize your goods, and turn you into the street."
"Ah, I always said he was the nicest man I knew!" observed Mueller,gravely. "Anything else, Madame Duphot?"
"Only this, Monsieur Mueller--that if you didn't go quietly, he'd takeyour windows out of the frames and your doors off the hinges."
"_Comment_! He bade you give me that message, the miserable old son of aspider! _Quatre-vingt mille plats de diables aux truffes_! Take mywindows out of the frames, indeed! Let him try, Madame Duphot--that'sall--let him try!"
And with this, Mueller, in a towering rage, led the way upstairs,muttering volleys of the most extraordinary and eccentric oaths of hisown invention, and leaving the little old _portiere_ grinningmaliciously in the hall.
"But can't you pay him?" said I.
"Whether I can, or can't, it seems I must," he replied, kicking open thedoor of his studio as viciously as if it were the corporeal frame ofMonsieur Richard. "The only question is--how? At the present moment, Ihaven't five francs in the till."
"Nor have I more than twenty. How much is it?"
"A hundred and sixty--worse luck!"
"Haven't the Tapottes paid for any of their ancestors yet?"
"Confound it!--yes; they've paid for a Marshal of France and a FarmerGeneral, which are all I've yet finished and sent home. But there wasthe washerwoman, and the _traiteur_, and the artist's colorman, and,_enfin_, the devil to pay--and the money's gone, somehow!"
"I've only just cleared myself from a lot of debts," I said, ruefully,"and I daren't ask either my father or Dr. Cheron for an advance just atpresent. What is to be done?"
"Oh, I don't know. I must raise the money somehow. I must sellsomething--there's my copy of Titian's 'Pietro Aretino.' It's wortheighty francs, if only for a sign. And there's a Madonna and Child afterAndrea del Sarto, worth a fortune to any enterprising sage-femme withartistic proclivities. I'll try what Nebuchadnezzar will do for me."
"And who, in the name of all that's Israelitish, is Nebuchadnezzar?"
"Nebuchadnezzar, my dear Arbuthnot, is a worthy Shylock of myacquaintance--a gentleman well known to Bohemia--one who buys and sellswhatever is purchasable and saleable on the face of the globe, from aship of war to a comic paragraph in the _Charivari_. He deals inbric-a-brac, sermons, government sinecures, pugs, false hair, lightliterature, patent medicines, and the fine arts. He lives in the Placedes Victoires. Would you like to be introduced to him?"
"Immensely."
"Well, then, be here by eight to-morrow morning, and I'll take you withme. After nine he goes out, or is only visible to buyers. Here's mybottle of Rhenish--genuine Assmanshauser. Are you hungry?"
I admitted that I was not unconscious of a sensation akin to appetite.
He gazed steadfastly into the cupboard, and shook his head.
"A box of sardines," he said, gloomily, "nearly empty. Half a loaf,evidently disinterred from Pompeii. An inch of Lyons sausage, savedfrom the ark; the remains of a bottle of fish sauce, and a pot ofcurrant jelly. What will you have?"
I decided for the relics of Pompeii and the deluge, and we sat down todiscuss those curious delicacies. Having no corkscrew, we knocked offthe neck of the bottle, and being short of glasses, drank our wine outof teacups.
"But you have never opened your parcel all this time," I said presently."It may be full of _billets de banque_--who can tell?"
"That's true," said Mueller; and broke the seals.
"By all the Gods of Olympus!" he shouted, holding up a small oblongvolume bound in dark green cloth. "My sketch-book!"
He opened it, and a slip of paper fell out. On this slip of paper werewritten, in a very neat, small hand, the words, "_Returned withthanks_;" but the page that contained the sketch made in the CafeProcope was missing.
* * * * *
CHAPTER XXXIII.
AN EVENING PARTY AMONG THE PETIT-BOURGEOISIE.
Madame Marotte, as I have already mentioned more than once, lived in theRue du Faubourg St. Denis; which, as all the world knows, is aprolongation of the Rue St. Denis--just as the Rue St. Denis was, in mytime, a transpontine continuation of the old Rue de la Harpe. Beginningat the Place du Chatelet as the Rue St. Denis, opening at its fartherend on the Boulevart St. Denis and passing under the triumphal arch ofLouis le Grand (called the Porte St. Denis), it there becomes first theRue du Faubourg St. Denis, and then the interminable Grande Route du St.Denis which drags its slow length along all the way to the famous Abbeyoutside Paris.
The Rue du Faubourg St. Denis is a changed street now, and widens out,prim, white, and glittering, towards the new barrier and the new RondPoint. But in the dear old days of which I tell, it was the sloppiest,worst-paved, worst-lighted, noisiest, narrowest, and most crowded of allthe great Paris thoroughfares north of the Seine. All the countrytraffic from Chantilly and Compiegne came lumbering this way into thecity; diligences, omnibuses, wagons, fiacres, water-carts, and all kindsof vehicles thronged and blocked the street perpetually; and the sound
of wheels ceased neither by night nor by day. The foot-pavements of theRue du Faubourg St. Denis, too, were always muddy, be the weather whatit might; and the gutters were always full of stagnant pools. Anever-changing, never-failing stream of rustics from the country,workpeople from the factories of the _banlieu,_ grisettes, commercialtravellers, porters, commissionaires, and _gamins_ of all ages hereflowed to and fro. Itinerant venders of cakes, lemonade, cocoa,chickweed, _allumettes_, pincushions, six-bladed penknives, andnever-pointed pencils filled the air with their cries, and made both dayand night hideous. You could not walk a dozen yards at any time withoutfalling down a yawning cellar-trap, or being run over by a porter with ahuge load upon his head, or getting splashed from head to foot by thesudden pulling-up of some cart in the gutter beside you.
It was among the peculiarities of the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis thateverybody was always in a hurry, and that nobody was ever seen to lookin at the shop-windows. The shops, indeed, might as well have had nowindows, since there were no loungers to profit by them. Every house,nevertheless, was a shop, and every shop had its window. These windows,however, were for the most part of that kind before which the passer-byrarely cares to linger; for the commerce of the Rue du Faubourg St.Denis was of that steady, unpretending, money-making sort that despisesmere shop-front attractions. Grocers, stationers, corn-chandlers,printers, cutlers, leather-sellers, and such other inelegant trades,here most did congregate; and to the wearied wayfarer toiling along thedead level of this dreary pave, it was quite a relief to come upon evenan artistically-arranged _Magasin de Charcuterie_, with its rows ofglazed tongues, mighty Lyons sausages, yellow _terrines_ of Strasbourgpies, fantastically shaped pickle-jars, and pyramids of silverysardine boxes.
It was at number One Hundred and Two in this agreeable thoroughfare thatmy friend's innamorata resided with her maternal aunt, the worthy relictof Monsieur Jacques Marotte, umbrella-maker, deceased. Thither,accordingly, we wended our miry way, Mueller and I, after dining togetherat one of our accustomed haunts on the evening following the eventsrelated in my last chapter. The day had been dull and drizzly, and theevening had turned out duller and more drizzly still. We had not hadrain for some time, and the weather had been (as it often is in Paris inOctober) oppressively hot; and now that the rain had come, it did notseem to cool the air at all, but rather to load it with vapors, and makethe heat less endurable than before.
Having toiled all the way up from the Rue de la Harpe on the fartherbank of the Seine, and having forded the passage of the Arch of Louis leGrand, we were very wet and muddy indeed, very much out of breath, andvery melancholy objects to behold.
"It's dreadful to think of going into any house in this condition,Mueller," said I, glancing down ruefully at the state of my boots, andhaving just received a copious spattering of mud all down the left sideof my person. "What is to be done?"
"We've only to go to a boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop," repliedMueller. "There's sure to be one close by somewhere."
"A boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop!" I echoed.
"What--didn't you know there were lots of them, all over Paris? Have younever noticed places that look like shops, with ground glass windowsinstead of shop-fronts, on which are painted up the words, '_cirage desbottes?_'"
"Never, that I can remember."
"Then be grateful to me for a piece of very useful information! Supposewe turn down this by-street--it's mostly to the seclusion of by-streetsand passages that our bashful sex retires to renovate its boots and itsbroadcloth."
I followed him, and in the course of a few minutes we found the sort ofplace of which we were in search. It consisted of one large, long room,like a shop without goods, counters, or shelves. A single narrow benchran all round the walls, raised on a sort of wooden platform about threefeet in width and three feet from the ground. Seated upon this bench,somewhat uncomfortably, as it seemed, with their backs against the wall,sat some ten or a dozen men and boys, each with an attendant shoeblackkneeling before him, brushing away vigorously. Two or three othercustomers, standing up in the middle of the shop, like horses in thehands of the groom, were having their coats brushed instead of theirboots. Of those present, some looked like young shopmen, some were ofthe _ouvrier_ class, and one or two looked like respectable smalltradesmen and fathers of families. The younger men were evidentlysmartening up for an hour or two at some cheap ball or Cafe-Concert, nowthat the warehouse was closed, and the day's work was over.
Our boots being presently brought up to the highest degree of polish,and our garments cleansed of every disfiguring speck, we paid a few sousapiece and turned out again into the streets. Happily, we had not far togo. A short cut brought us into the midst of the Rue de Faubourg St.Denis, and within a few yards of a gloomy-looking little shop with thewords "_Veuve Marotte_" painted up over the window, and a huge red andwhite umbrella dangling over the door. A small boy in a shiny blackapron was at that moment putting up the shutters; the windows of thefront room over the shop were brightly lit from within; and a little oldgentleman in goloshes and a large blue cloak with a curly collar, wasjust going in at the private door. We meekly followed him, and hung upour hats and overcoats, as he did, in the passage.
"After you, Messieurs," said the little old gentleman, skipping politelyback, and flourishing his hand in the direction of the stairs."After you!"
We protested vehemently against this arrangement, and fought quite askirmish of civilities at the foot of the stairs.
"I am at home here, Messieurs," said the little old gentleman, who, nowthat he was divested of hat, cloak, and goloshes, appeared in a flaxen_toupet_, an antiquated blue coat with brass buttons, a profuselyfrilled shirt, and low-cut shoes with silver buckles. "I am an oldfriend of the family--a friend of fifty years. I hold myself privilegedto do the honors, Messieurs;--a friend of fifty years may claim to havehis privileges."
With this he smirked, bowed, and backed against the wall, so that wewere obliged to precede him. When we reached the landing, however, he(being evidently an old gentleman of uncommon politeness and agility)sprang forward, held open the door for us, and insisted on usheringus in.
It was a narrow, long-shaped room, the size of the shop, with twowindows looking upon the street; a tiny square of carpet in the middleof the floor; boards highly waxed and polished; a tea-table squeezed upin one corner; a somewhat ancient-looking, spindle-legged cottage pianobehind the door; a mirror and an ornamental clock over the mantelpiece;and a few French lithographs, colored in imitation of crayon drawings,hanging against the walls.
Madame Marotte, very deaf and fussy, in a cap with white ribbons, cameforward to receive us. Mademoiselle Marie, sitting between two otheryoung women of her own age, hung her head, and took no notice ofour arrival.
The rest of the party consisted of a gentleman and two old ladies. Thegentleman (a plump, black-whiskered elderly Cupid, with a vast expanseof shirt-front like an immense white ace of hearts, and a rose in hisbutton-hole) was standing on the hearth-rug in a graceful attitude, withone hand resting on his hip, and the other under his coat-tails. Of thetwo old ladies, who seemed as if expressly created by nature to serve asfoils to one another, one was very fat and rosy, in a red silk gown anda kind of black velvet hat trimmed with white marabout feathers andRoman pearls; while the other was tall, gaunt, and pale, with a longnose, a long upper lip, and supernaturally long yellow teeth. She wore ablack gown, black cotton gloves, and a black velvet band across herforehead, fastened in the centre with a black and gold clasp containinga ghastly representation of a human eye, apparently purblind--which gavethis lady the air of a serious Cyclops.
Madame Marotte was profuse of thanks, welcomes, apologies, and curtseys.It was so good of these gentlemen to come so far--and in such unpleasantweather, too! But would not these Messieurs give themselves the troubleto be seated? And would they prefer tea or coffee--for both were on thetable? And where was Marie? Marie, whose _fete_-day it was, and whoshould have come forward to welcome these gentlemen, and thank t
hem forthe honor of their company!
Thus summoned, Mademoiselle Marie emerged from between the two youngwomen, and curtsied demurely.
In the meanwhile, the little old gentleman who had ushered as in wasbustling about the room, shaking hands with every one, and complimentingthe ladies.
"Ah, Madame Desjardins," he said, addressing the stout lady in the hat,"enchanted to see you back from the sea-side!--you and your charmingdaughter. I do not know which looks the more young and blooming."
Then, turning to the grim lady in black:--
"And I am charmed to pay my homage to Madame de Montparnasse. I had thepleasure of being present at the brilliant _debut_ of Madame's gifteddaughter the other evening at the private performance of the pupils ofthe Conservatoire. Mademoiselle Honoria inherits the _grand air_,Madame, from yourself."
Then, to the plump gentleman with the shirt-front:--
"And Monsieur Philomene!--this is indeed a privilege and a pleasure. Badweather, Monsieur Philomene, for the voice!"
Then, to the two girls:--
"Mesdemoiselles--Achille Dorinet prostrates himself at the feet ofyouth, beauty, and talent! Mademoiselle Honoria, I salute in you thefuture Empress of the tragic stage. Mademoiselle Rosalie, modestyforbids me to extol the acquired graces of even my most promising pupil;but I may be permitted to adore in you the graces of nature."
While I was listening to these scraps of salutation, Mueller wasmurmuring tender nothings in the ear of the fair Marie, and MadameMarotte was pouring out the coffee.
Monsieur Achille Dorinet, having gone the round of the company, nextaddressed himself to me.
"Permit me, Monsieur," he said, bringing his heels together andpunctuating his sentences with little bows, "permit me, in the absenceof a master of the ceremonies, to introduce myself--Achille Dorinet,Achille Dorinet, whose name may not, perhaps, be wholly unknown to youin connection with the past glories of the classical ballet. AchilleDorinet, formerly _premier sujet_ of the Opera Francais--now principalchoreographic professor at the Conservatoire Imperiale de Musique. Ihave had the honor, Monsieur, of dancing at Erfurth before theirImperial Majesties the Emperors Napoleon and Alexander, and a host ofminor sovereigns. Those, Monsieur, were the high and palmy days of theart. We performed a ballet descriptive of the siege of Troy, and Iundertook the part of a river god--the god Scamander, _en effet_. Thegreat ladies of the court, Monsieur, were graciously pleased to admiremy proportions as the god Scamander. I wore a girdle of sedges, a wreathof water-lilies, and a scarf of blue and silver. I have reason tobelieve that the costume became me."
"Sir," I replied gravely, "I do not doubt it."
"It is a noble art, Monsieur, _l'art de la dame_" said the former_premier sujet_, with a sigh; "but it is on the decline. Of the grandstyle of fifty years ago, only myself and tradition remain."
"Monsieur was, doubtless, a contemporary of Vestris, the famous dancer,"I said.
"The illustrious Vestris, Monsieur," said the little old gentleman,"was, next to Louis the Fourteenth, the greatest of Frenchmen. I amproud to own myself his disciple, as well as his contemporary."
"Why next to Louis the Fourteenth, Monsieur Dorinet?" I asked, keepingmy countenance with difficulty. "Why not next to Napoleon the First, whowas a still greater conqueror?"
"But no dancer, Monsieur!" replied the ex-god Scamander, with a kind ofhalf pirouette; "whereas the Grand Monarque was the finest dancer ofhis epoch."
Madame Marotte had by this time supplied all her guests with tea andcoffee, while Monsieur Philomene went round with the cakes and bread andbutter. Madame Desjardins spread her pocket-handkerchief on her lap--apocket-handkerchief the size of a small table-cloth. Madame deMontparnasse, more mindful of her gentility, removed to a corner of thetea-table, and ate her bread and butter in her black cotton gloves.
"We hope we have another bachelor by-and-by," said Madame Marotte,addressing herself to the young ladies, who looked down and giggled. "Acharming man, mesdemoiselles, and quite the gentleman--our _locataire_,M'sieur Lenoir. You know him, M'sieur Dorinet--pray tell thesedemoiselles what a charming man M'sieur Lenoir is!"
The little dancing-master bowed, coughed, smiled, and looked somewhatembarrassed.
"Monsieur Lenoir is no doubt a man of much information," he said,hesitatingly; "a traveller--a reader--a gentleman--oh! yes, certainly agentleman. But to say that he is a--a charming man ... well, perhaps theladies are the best judges of such nice questions. What saysMam'selle Marie?"
Thus applied to, the fair Marie became suddenly crimson, and had not aword to reply with. Monsieur Dorinet stared. The young ladies tittered.Madame Marotte, deaf as a post and serenely unconscious, smiled, nodded,and said "Ah, yes, yes--didn't I tell you so?"
"Monsieur Dorinet has, I fear, asked an indiscreet question," saidMueller, boiling over with jealousy.
"I--I have not observed Monsieur Lenoir sufficiently to--to form anopinion," faltered Marie, ready to cry with vexation.
Mueller glared at her reproachfully, turned on his heel, and came over towhere I was standing.
"You saw how she blushed?" he said in a fierce whisper. "_Sacredie_!I'll bet my head she's an arrant flirt. Who, in the name of all thefiends, is this lodger she's been carrying on with? A lodger, too--oh!the artful puss!"
At this awkward moment, Monsieur Dorinet, with considerable tact, askedMonsieur Philomene for a song; and Monsieur Philomene (who as Iafterwards learned was a favorite tenor at fifth-rate concerts) wasgraciously pleased to comply.
Not, however, without a little preliminary coquetry, after the manner oftenors. First he feared he was hoarse; then struck a note or two on thepiano, and tried his falsetto; then asked for a glass of water; andfinally begged that one of the young ladies would be so amiable as toaccompany him.
Mademoiselle Honoria, inheriting rigidity from the maternal Cyclops,drew herself up and declined stiffly; but the other, whom thedancing-master had called Rosalie, got up directly and said she woulddo her best.
"Only," she added, blushing, "I play so badly!"
Monsieur Philomene was provided with two copies of his song--one for theaccompanyist and one for himself; then, standing well away from thepiano with his face to the audience, he balanced his music in his hand,made his little professional bow, coughed, ran his fingers through hishair, and assumed an expression of tender melancholy.
"One--two--three," began Mdlle. Rosalie, her little fat fingersstaggering helplessly among the first cadenzas of the symphony."One--two--three. One" ...
Monsieur Philomene interrupted with a wave of the hand, as if conductingan orchestra.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle," he said, "not quite so fast, if you please!Andantino--andantino--one--two--three ... Just so! A thousand thanks!"
Again Mdlle. Rosalie attacked the symphony. Again Monsieur Philomenecleared his voice, and suffered a pensive languor to cloud hismanly brow.
"_Revenez, revenez, beaux jours de mon enfance,_"
he began, in a small, tremulous, fluty voice.
"They'll have a long road to travel back, _parbleu_!" muttered Mueller.
"_De votre aspect riant charmer ma souvenance_!"
Here Mdlle. Rosalie struck a wrong chord, became involved in hopelessdifficulties, and gasped audibly.
Monsieur Philomene darted a withering glance at her, and went on:--
"_Mon coeur; mon pauvre coeur_" ...
More wrong chords, and a smothered "_mille pardons_!" from Mdlle.Rosalie.
"_Mon coeur, mon pauvre coeur a la tristesse en proie, En fouillant le passe"...._
A dead stop on the part of Mdlle. Rosalie.
_"En fouillant le passe_"....
repeated the tenor, with the utmost severity of emphasis.
"_Mais, mon Dieu_, Rosalie! what are you doing?" cried MadameDesjardins, angrily. "Why don't you go on?"
Mdlle. Rosalie burst into a flood of tears.
"I--I can't!" she sobbed. "It's so--so very difficult--and"...
&n
bsp; Madame Desjardins flung up her hands in despair.
"_Ciel_!" she cried, "and I have been paying three francs a lesson foryou, Mademoiselle, twice a week for the last six years!"
"_Mais, maman_"....
"_Fi done_, Mademoiselle! I am ashamed of you. Make a curtsey toMonsieur Philomene this moment, and beg his pardon; for you have spoiledhis beautiful song!"
But Monsieur Philomene would hear of no such expiation. His soul, touse his own eloquent language, recoiled from it with horror! Theaccompaniment, _a vrai dire_, was not easy, and _la bien aimable_Mam'selle Rosalie had most kindly done her best with it. _Allonsdonc!_--on condition that no more should be said on the subject,Monsieur Philomene would volunteer to sing a little unaccompaniedromance of his own composition--a mere _bagatelle_; but a tribute to"_les beaux yeux de ces cheres dames_!"
So Mam'selle Rosalie wiped away her tears, and Madame Desjardinssmoothed her ruffled feathers, and Monsieur Philomene warbled aplaintive little ditty in which "_coeur_" rhymed to "_peur_" and"_amours_" to "_toujours_" and "_le sort_" to "_la mort_" in quite theusual way; so giving great satisfaction to all present, but most,perhaps, to himself.
And now, hospitably anxious that each of her guests should have a chanceof achieving distinction, Madame Marotte invited Mdlle. Honoria to favorthe company with a dramatic recitation.
Mdlle. Honoria hesitated; exchanged glances with the Cyclops; and, inorder to enhance the value of her performance, began raising all kindsof difficulties. There was no stage, for instance; and there were nofootlights; but M. Dorinet met these objections by proposing to rangeall the seats at one end of the room, and to divide the stage off by arow of lighted candles.
"But it is so difficult to render a dramatic scene without aninterlocutor!" said the young lady.
"What is it you require, _ma chere demoiselle?_" asked Madame Marotte.
"I have no interlocutor," said Mdlle. Honoria.
"No what, my love?"
"No interlocutor," repeated Mdlle. Honoria, at the top of her voice.
"Dear! dear! what a pity! Can't we send the boy for it? Marie, my child,bid Jacques run to Madame de Montparnasse's _appartement_ in theRue" ...
But Madame Marotte's voice was lost in the confusion; for MonsieurDorinet was already deep in the arrangement of the room, and we were allhelping to move the furniture. As for Mademoiselle's last difficulty,the little dancing-master met that by offering to read whatever wasnecessary to carry on the scene.
And now, the stage being cleared, the audience placed, and MonsieurDorinet provided with a volume of Corneille, Mademoiselle Honoriaproceeded to drape herself in an old red shawl belonging toMadame Marotte.
The scene selected is the fifth of the fourth act of Horace, whereCamille, meeting her only surviving brother, upbraids him with the deathof Curiace.
Mam'selle Honoria, as Camille, with clasped hands and tragic expression,stalks in a slow and stately manner towards the footlights.
(Breathless suspense of the audience.)
M. Dorinet, who should begin by vaunting his victory over the Curiatii,stops to put on his glasses, finds it difficult to read with all thecandles on the ground, and mutters something about the smallness ofthe type.
Mdlle. Honoria, not to keep the audience waiting, surveys the ex-godSeamander with a countenance expressive of horror; starts; and takes aturn across the stage.
"_Ma soeur,_" begins M. Dorinet, holding the book very much on one side,so as to catch the light upon the page, "_ma soeur, voici le bras_"....
"Ah, Heaven! my dear Mademoiselle, take care of the candles!" criesMadame Marotte in a shrill whisper.
... "_le bras qui venge nos deux freres, Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, Qui nous rend"_...
Here he lost his place; stammered; and recovered it with difficulty.
_"Qui nous rend maitres d'Albe"_....
Madame Marotte groans aloud in an agony of apprehension
"_Ah, mon Dieu!_" she exclaims, gaspingly, "if they didn't flare so, itwouldn't be half so dangerous!"
Here M. Dorinet dropped his book, and stooping to pick up the book,dropped his spectacles.
"I think," said Mdlle. Honoria, indignantly, "we had better begin again.Monsieur Dorinet, pray read with the help of a candle _this_ time!"
And, with an angry toss of her head, Mdlle. Honoria went up the stage,put on her tragedy face again, and prepared once more to stalk down tothe footlights.
Monsieur Dorinet, in the meanwhile, had snatched up a candle, readjustedhis spectacles, and found his place.
"_Ma soeur_" he began again, holding the book close to his eyes and thecandle just under his nose, and nodding vehemently with everyemphasis:--
"_Ma soeur, voici le bras qui venge nos deux freres, Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, Qui nous rend maitres d'Albe_" ...
A piercing scream from Madame Marotte, a general cry on the part of theaudience, and a strong smell of burning, brought the dancing-master to asudden stop. He looked round, bewildered.
"Your wig! Your wig's on fire!" cried every one at once.
Monsieur Dorinet clapped his hand to his head, which was now adornedwith a rapidly-spreading glory; burned his fingers; and cut afrantic caper.
"Save him! save him!" yelled Madame Marotte.
But almost before the words were out of her mouth, Mueller, clearing thecandles at a bound, had rushed to the rescue, scalped Monsieur Dorinetby a _tour de main_, cast the blazing wig upon the floor, and trampledout the fire.
Then followed a roar of "inextinguishable laughter," in which, however,neither the tragic Camille nor the luckless Horace joined.
"Heavens and earth!" murmured the little dancing-master, ruefullysurveying the ruins of his blonde peruke. And then he put his hand tohis head, which was as bald as an egg.
In the meanwhile Mdlle. Honoria, who had not yet succeeded in uttering asyllable of her part, took no pains to dissemble her annoyance; and wasonly pacified at last by a happy proposal on the part of MonsieurPhilomene, who suggested that "this gifted demoiselle" should beentreated to favor the society with a soliloquy.
Thus invited, she draped herself again, stalked down to the footlightsfor the third time, and in a high, shrill voice, with every variety ofartificial emphasis and studied gesture, recited Voltaire's famous"Death of Coligny," from the _Henriade_.
In the midst of this performance, just at that point when the assassinsare described as falling upon their knees before their victim, the doorof the room was softly opened, and another guest slipped in unseenbehind us. Slipped in, indeed, so quietly that (the backs of theaudience being turned that way) no one seemed to hear, and no one lookedround but myself.
Brief as was that glance, and all in the shade as he stood, I recognisedhim instantly.
It was the mysterious stranger of the Cafe Procope.