San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 131

"You will deceive me no more! this time I have seen--seen with my own eyes--that you devote to another the hours that I am not with you. And you told me that I was wrong to be jealous! Ah! your treachery is shameful! Why not have told me frankly that you no longer loved me? But women are never willing to be frank! It is a part of their nature to deceive. I knew it, and I should not have believed you. Adieu, madame, and this time it is really forever!"

Having signed and sealed this missive, Adhemar sent for a messenger and told him to carry it to the person to whom it was addressed, and to come away at once, without waiting for an answer.

Then, throwing himself into a chair, and resting his head on his hand, he abandoned himself to his thoughts, murmuring:

"Oh! if I could only forget her!"

XVIII

MONSIEUR SERINGAT'S SECRET

Dodichet, disinherited by his aunt, and with only a hundred francs that he could call his own, should have looked about for some occupation which would afford him a livelihood; but, instead of that, he bought more tobacco and cigars, went into a cafe and drank a gla.s.s of beer, then took a cab and was driven to the so-called hotel on Rue Saint-Jacques, where he had left Monsieur Seringat. He said to himself on the road:

"I must have recourse to that idiot again; it's a great pity, because I owe him a thousand crowns already, and I have no prospect of any legacy hereafter with which to pay him; but still, n.o.body knows, perhaps the public won't treat me as harshly everywhere as it did at Quimper-Corentin; my voice will come back; I'll take to a diet of yolks of eggs--and mulled eggs. Meanwhile, Seringat may as well lend me another thousand crowns. He's rich; if he wasn't, I wouldn't ask him for a sou, especially as he couldn't give it to me. But he told me himself, in the course of conversation, that he had twelve thousand francs a year. The idiot! he could be so happy with that! And to think that he's in hiding, that he's afraid someone will recognize him--and all because his wife---- Upon my word, it's incredible! I am perfectly sure that he hasn't his like in Paris!"

When he arrived at the old house, Dodichet dismissed the cab; he crossed the courtyard, and on the ground floor found the landlady, who was also concierge, and who supplied her guests with food; she filled a number of positions, in order to increase her profits. At that moment she was preparing snails _a la provencale_: first she took them out of the sh.e.l.l, which she filled with a stuffing strongly seasoned with garlic, then replaced the creature, and let the whole simmer over a slow fire.

"Gad! that smells good!" observed Dodichet; "you're cooking snails, are you, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur; and I venture to flatter myself that they'll be delicious."

"I am not mad over that animal; it seems to me that when he's cooked he becomes exactly like india rubber; but these have a seductive odor."

"They are _a la provencale_. If monsieur would like a portion, they're only six sous each; that ain't dear."

"Faith! no; and one must come to the upper end of Rue Saint-Jacques to get any sort of a dish all cooked at that price. Put one portion aside for me. I'll eat it when I come down from my friend Miflores. For I suppose he's in, isn't he? and I'll go up."

The landlady-concierge dropped a snail which she was just preparing, looked at Dodichet with a tragic expression, and exclaimed:

"Stop, monsieur! don't go up! it's no use; you wont find Monsieur Miflores."

"Has he gone out? Well, then I'll wait for him and eat my snails now; he won't be out long, I fancy?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can a.s.sure you that he'll never come back."

"What do you say? he'll never come back? Has he moved again, then? What does this mean?"

"Why, don't you know what has happened, monsieur?"

"Parbleu! madame, if I did know, I wouldn't ask you."

"Well, then, monsieur, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened.

But first let me pick up this snail which slipped out of my hand."

"To be sure; shall you cook it with the others?"

"Fire purifies everything, monsieur.--It was like this: just a fortnight ago, a middle-aged man, very well dressed and with a very jovial air, came into my house, followed by a porter with his luggage. He asked me for a good room, and said he expected to spend ten or twelve days in Paris; that he had come here to enjoy himself; and he told me his name, Jacques Ronflard. Very good; I put him in a room on the first floor, looking on this courtyard; he went out soon, and didn't come in till very late. The next morning, monsieur, your friend Miflores went out as usual to take a short walk before breakfast. He'd no sooner gone than my new tenant, Monsieur Ronflard, comes downstairs and says:

"'Pardieu! you've got an acquaintance of mine here; I just saw him through the window, and I recognized him right off. I'm very glad to find him in the same hotel; he's a good friend of mine, is Seringat, and he comes from Pontoise.'

"I looks at him, and I says:

"'But you're mistaken, monsieur; I haven't got any Seringat in my house.'

"'Excuse me, madame, but I saw him go out of this house this very minute.'

"'The man you saw go out of this house is named Miflores, and not Seringat, and he never told me that he came from Pontoise.'

"'Apparently, madame, he's concluded to change his name; but I am perfectly sure that the person who just went out is named Seringat, formerly a druggist at Pontoise. Parbleu! I know him well; I've often bought insect powder of him to kill fleas. Poor Seringat! he's had a hard time. His wife--you see what I mean? The whole town knew about it; somebody even went so far as to write a song about him. Stay! I remember one verse. It goes to the tune of the _Carillon de Dunkerque_.'--And with that, he begins to sing:

"'Ce pauvre Seringat!

Il a fait tant d'eclat, Que tout Pontoise a su Qu'il etait, ma foi, cornu!'

"Then he goes back to his room, saying:

"'To prove that it's him, you'll see me throw myself into his arms when he comes back. Be kind enough to let me know.'

"So he goes back to his room; and I don't deny that I didn't care much whether the other man was the hero of the song or not. In about a quarter of an hour, Monsieur Miflores came back. As soon as I saw him, I runs and says to him:

"'Is it true, monsieur, that your name's Seringat, and that you came from Pontoise? There's a man in the house who says he recognized you. He even knows a song about you. He asked me to let him know as soon as you came in.'

"At that, I saw the poor man change color; he rolled his eyes around and clenched his fists, and he says to me:

"'Madame, I forbid you to let that man know. Make up my bill; I am going up to get my baggage and leave the house instantly.'

"It was no use for me to promise not to say anything to the other one; he wouldn't listen to me. He went up to his room, packed his valise, came down again, paid me my money, and went off. But Monsieur Ronflard had seen him through the window. So he comes running down again.

"'What!' he says; 'has he gone? didn't he wait for me? Oh! but I'll catch him!'

"And with that, he ran out to try to overtake his friend. He saw him in front of him, but the other turned and, seeing that he was being followed, began to run as if the devil was after him. Monsieur Ronflard was obstinate; he ran after him, and it seems that he kept calling to him:

"'Stop, don't run like that, Seringat! it's Ronflard; don't you know me?'

"The man from Pontoise ran all the faster. Somebody who saw them scurrying through the streets told me he thought they were running for the firemen. To cut it short, Monsieur Miflores came to the river; he went down to the sh.o.r.e, saw a boatman pulling down stream, and motioned to him to take him aboard. The man rowed to the bank and laid a plank for him to come aboard. At that moment, Monsieur Ronflard came up and began to sing at the top of his lungs:

"'Ce pauvre Seringat!

Il a fait tant d'eclat, Que tout Pontoise a su Qu'il etait, ma foi, cornu!'

"Poor Monsieur Miflores no sooner heard that song than he rushed onto the plank; but he made a misstep and fell into the water. The current dragged him away--it seems that he couldn't swim. And when they succeeded in fis.h.i.+ng him up, he was dead!"

"Dead! Can it be that he is dead? Poor Seringat!--for that really was his true name.--Well! there's no doubt that your Monsieur Ronflard did a good stroke of business then!"

"Why, monsieur, he seemed to be terribly distressed; he had the jaundice on account of it, and he only left Paris yesterday.--'I must go and tell Madame Seringat she's a widow,' he says to me, when he went away; 'I feel sure that it won't make her feel so badly as I do.'"