San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 132

Dodichet did not recover for several minutes from the shock he had received. Then he sat down at a table and said:

"Be kind enough to give me my plate of snails, madame, with some bread and wine; for, after all, if I don't eat them, that won't bring poor Seringat to life. That's why I prefer to eat them."

The landlady hastened to serve Dodichet, and remained with him to talk, that being her greatest enjoyment. Dodichet heaved a faint sigh from time to time, but he did not waste a mouthful.

"Does monsieur find my snails to his taste?"

"They're very good, madame, and perfectly cooked. You almost make me like the dish, and I am forgetting the loss I have suffered.--Poor Seringat!"

"Is monsieur a great loser by his death?"

"Yes, indeed! I have lost--all that I had in prospect."

"Did he owe you money?"

"No, not exactly. But it amounted to the same thing."

"You will fall back on your friend's wife--his widow, I mean--won't you?"

"No; I have no claim on her. There is nothing left for me but to dedicate one last sigh to the deceased, and think of something else.--How much do I owe you, madame?"

"Sixteen sous in all, monsieur, for the snails and wine and bread."

"Well, that's not dear, on my honor! When I want to treat my mistress, I'll bring her here; especially as I see no prospect of a dinner at Brebant's."

Dodichet paid his bill and left the old hotel of which he had formerly held such a low opinion, but which he was now very glad to know, looking upon it as a possible resource in adversity. He bent his steps toward Boulotte's abode. As the wine he had taken with his snails had not gone to his head, he reflected on his position. The two blows which he had received in rapid succession annihilated all his hopes, and made even his present very precarious. However, he would not allow himself to be cast down; his heedless nature kept him from worrying about the future.

Such natures are much to be envied, so some people declare. They never borrow trouble, and everything is rose-colored in their eyes!--I am not of that opinion; heedlessness means disorder, and disorder means ruin; and that is the fate of such happy-go-lucky natures.

When Dodichet arrived at the young ballet dancer's, she was not, as usual, making mineral rouge with bricks, but was engaged in drawing a dainty little network of veins on her temples, with indigo. At sight of her lover, she threw aside her brush and ran to embrace him.

"Here you are! How glad I am! Tell me all about your debut and your triumph. I am sure you had wreaths thrown to you, and made plenty of conquests! You were so handsome as Joconde! How many recalls did you have?"

"They recalled me, that's true enough," Dodichet replied, dropping into a chair, "but I didn't choose to go back; because they wanted to play a low trick on me. I had just time to escape, in a policeman's cloak and a fireman's helmet."

"What sort of a tale is this? What new practical joke have you been playing?"

"Well, it was a very poor one; the audience at Quimper-Corentin had the cheek to hiss, to send me to the devil; and I turned round and showed them my other face. At that, there were shouts and yelling and a great hullabaloo; and, as I have just told you, I had hardly time to get away."

"Is it possible? And what's become of your pretty costume?"

"I sold it, on my way back, to get a pair of trousers and a coat."

"So your debut--you've got to begin again, eh?"

"Thanks, no! I have no desire to try it again in the same line. My voice won't come back."

"Oh! you smoke too much! I told you so! Luckily, your aunt's dead; a friend of yours told me."

"Yes, my aunt's dead, that's true; but she disinherited me!"

"Oh! my poor boy! what a grind! But, thank heaven! you still have your gold mine--the man who can't refuse you when you ask him for money--the man with the mystery!"

"My dear girl, the man with the mystery has followed my aunt's example; that is, he hasn't disinherited me, but he's dead."

"Oh! mon Dieu! Did someone mention Pontoise to him?"

"Better than that: someone sang him a song that was written about him at Pontoise, in which they poked fun at him about his accident; for I can tell you now what it was that that jacka.s.s was so afraid people would find out. Sieur Seringat had a very pretty wife, whom he believed to be a regular Lucretia. The fellow had the bad habit of making sport of deceived husbands, of laughing at their expense, and saying that no such misfortune would ever happen to him. But, lo and behold! one day, at an outdoor fete, our Seringat saw a veiled lady in the distance, just at dusk, slip into an isolated summer house, where, not long after, she was joined by a young officer. Feeling sure that the lady he had seen was the wife of one of the leading men of the town, Seringat got together several young men, confided his discovery to them, and guided them to the pavilion, which was not lighted, but which they entered, carrying torches, on the pretext of illuminating it. Whom did they find there?

Whom but Madame Seringat, in criminal conversation with the young officer! Who was sheepish and shamefaced then? Who but Seringat; for all the husbands in Pontoise revenged themselves on him, and that same evening his misadventure was known all over the town. Seringat, in his rage and vexation at becoming one of that cla.s.s at which he had always laughed, left Pontoise the next day, swearing never to return. He took the name of Miflores, and anybody who knew him could get anything out of him by threatening to disclose his name and his adventure. In fact, he was drowned not long ago, because a man from Pontoise chased him, calling him by his real name, and singing a couplet in which he was ridiculed about his accident. In his haste to escape, Seringat, who was trying to get aboard a boat, made a misstep, fell into the river, and was drowned.--Now you know, my dear girl, how I made him lend me money.

He had so much self-esteem, and was so vexed at wearing a pair of horns, that you had only to threaten to tell about it, to obtain all you wanted."

"Well, he was a Gribouille, on my word! to throw himself into the water for fear someone would know he had taken a fancy to _the yellow_! If all the husbands that happens to should run into the river, the fish would get a good fright!--And what are you going to do now, my poor Dodichet?"

"I am going to make a cigarette."

"That won't keep you alive."

"True; but to-morrow I shall go to see the theatrical agent. I'll tell him that I've changed my line, that I play the legitimate drama now, the leading roles, Frederick Lemaitre's and Melingue's and Dumaine's. He'll soon find me an engagement in some large town; for I don't propose to play in holes in the ground any more. I want a chance now to display my talents on a vast stage!"

"You're sure you have talents, are you?"

"Pardieu! everyone has; the only thing is to find them. A famous thinker has said: 'How many people have come into the world and left it without unpacking all their merchandise!'"

"What does that mean?"

"Don't you understand? You grieve me! That means that many people are born with talents and faculties which events, fatality or poverty, do not permit them to develop, to make manifest. Now, do you see, something tells me that I have dramatic genius in my stomach!"

"Dear me! And do you mean to force it out?"

"I mean to find my real vocation. Meanwhile, would you like me to treat you to snails? I know a place where they cook them in a way to make you lick your fingers."

"Thanks, I prefer something else!"

"After all, I still have a little money in my pocket, and I'll take you to Bonvalet's. Come, O Boulotte! On the way, I will purchase a number of dramas, and this evening I will learn the leading roles by heart."

"I think I see you!" said Boulotte, putting on her jaunty little hat; "this evening you will smoke!"

XIX

THE END OF THE YEAR

After forming the resolution never to see Madame Dermont again, Adhemar, unable to resist successfully his intense longing to meet her, to catch a glimpse of her, even at a distance, suddenly determined to go to England. He gave himself hardly time enough to pack a valise, took plenty of money, and hurried to the railway, which took him to Boulogne, whence he soon crossed the straits. He thought that he could escape from his memories by leaving his country, and went at once to London. He pa.s.sed six weeks there, which seemed to him six years, did his utmost to fall in love with an Englishwoman, and, failing miserably, returned at last to Paris.

"I believe it will be easier for me to fall in love with a Parisian," he thought; "at all events, it's all over, so far as Nathalie is concerned; I never think of her now, and she probably spends her time with the young man that she met at the Jardin des Plantes. After this, the sight of her will not make the slightest impression on me, and my heart would beat no faster if I should meet her face to face. I no longer love her!"

However, his first act, on reaching Paris, was to go and gaze at the windows of her whom he declared that he no longer loved. He walked up and down in front of her house for a long time, scrutinized everybody who went in or out, and returned home at last, saying to himself that that was simply the remains of an old habit, and that it would soon wear out.